THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 


BY  ARTHUR  DAV1SON  FICKE 

SONNETS  OF  A  PORTRAIT- PAINTER 

MR.   FAUST 

THE  BREAKING  OF  BONDS 

TWELVE  JAPANESE  PAINTERS 

THE  HAPPY  PRINCESS 

THE  EARTH  PASSION 

FROM  THE  ISLES 


THE 

MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

MCMXV 


COPYRIGHT,  IQIS,   BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PRINTED  BY  VAIL-BALLOU  COMPANY 
BINGHAMTON,  NEW  YORK 


A  number  of  the  following  poems  are  reprinted  here 
with  the  courteous  permission  of  the  Editors  of  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine,  Poetry  (Chicago),  The  Little  Review, 
The  Smart  Set,  The  Chicago  Evening  Post  Literary  Sup 
plement,  The  Poetry  Journal,  The  Century,  and  The 
Forum. 


CONTENTS 

HISTORIES 

PAGE 

THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP  3 

AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  15 

LYRICS 

THE  GREY  RIVER  43 

TO  THE  HARPIES  44 

TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND  45 

PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN  47 

LINES  FOR  TWO  FUTURISTS  48 

IN  LONELY  LANDS  51 

A  VERY  OLD  SPRING  SONG  52 

THE  JEWELS  OF  THE  SUN  54 

SNOWTIME  58 

THE  THREE  SISTERS  59 

TO  A  CHILD  TWENTY  YEARS  HENCE  60 

FATHERS  AND  SONS  61 

I  AM  WEARY  OF  BEING  BITTER  62 

ELEVEN  O'CLOCK  63 

THE  BIRDCAGE  65 

AMONG  SHADOWS  66 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LIKE  HIM  WHOSE  SPIRIT  67 

MEETING  68 

A  LOVE  LETTER  69 

THE  OLD  MEN'S  TALE  7* 

CHLOROFORM  72 

SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY  78 

GROTESQUES 

THE  GENTLE  READER  Qi 
WHY  WOMEN  HATE  ARTISTS  92 
A  POETRY  PARTY  93 
PORTRAIT  OF  A  SPIRITUALLY  DISTURBED  GEN 
TLEMAN  94 
PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN  COWPER  POWYS,  ESQ.  95 
TO  AN  OUTRAGEOUS  PERSON  0 
PORTRAIT  OF  A  PORTRAIT  PAINTER  97 
TO  ARIOSTO,  A  NOTABLE  CRICKET  98 
THE  POLICE  GAZETTE  99 
IN  A  BAR  ROOM  100 
THE  NEWEST  BELIEVER  101 
THE  WICKET  TO  THE  WISE  102 
SONG  OF  A  VERY  SMALL  DEVIL  103 
THISTLES  IQ4 


HISTORIES 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

SHADOWS  are  round  him  in  my  memory  — 
Impenetrable  shadows,  peopling  full 
A  universe  where  streams  of  heavy  light 
Reveal  strange  crouching  forms  of  ominous  doom. 
As  in  the  sun's  and  moon's  and  stars'  eclipse 
I  see  him  on  that  hilltop ;  mighty  wings 
Flap  from  the  sky  above  him  and  surround 
With  fierce  and  fluctuating  winds.     Alone, 
Sleepless,  he  waits  in  his  allotted  place 
Amid  these  howling  kingdoms  of  the  void ; 
Defiant,  sacrificed,  and  conquering; 
Mad ;  but  a  great  heart,  an  heroic  heart. 

'Twas  thus  I  came  upon  him :  — 

When,  at  end 

Of  college  years,  one  winter,  first  I  learned 
That,  if  I  loved  this  curious  human  life 
To  which  we  all  with  blind  affection  cling, 
I  must  with  instant  haste  betake  myself 
To  regions  far  from  Massachusetts'  coasts, 
In  hope  that  desert  air  would  make  me  whole 
And   hearty, —  as   in   fact   it   well   has  done. 
And  so  I  went,  not  fain  at  all  to  die; 
And  for  two  years  lived  on  the  western  plains 
At  a  friend's  ranch  until  my  peril  passed. 
There  first  I  saw  the  man  of  whom  my  tale 

3 


4  THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

Chiefly  shall  speak  —  a  raw-boned,  flaxen-haired 
Sheepherder;  tall  of  brow,  with  sunken  eyes, 
And  jaw  as  clean-cut  as  a  vessel's  prow:  — 
One  of  those  smouldering,  intense,  strange  men 
Whom  no  spot  breeds  except  the  northern  fiords. 
He  had  a  name  common  in  his  own  land  — 
Larson :  —  no  common  man,  for  all  of  that, 
But  a  great  heart;  —  twisted,  awry  and  blind, — 
Swayed   by  strange   tyrannies,   the  dupe  of  dreams, — 
Yet  a  great  heart,  moving  in  mists  obscure, 
Protagonist  of  shadows,  single-armed 
Champion  against  the  terrors  of  the  night. 

He  had   come  hither  from  some  eastern   town, — 

Pittsburgh,  I  think, —  where  his  dark  youth  had  passed 

In  grip  of  stern  privations.     He  was  born 

Child  of  a  foundry-worker,  one  of  four, 

Brought  up  on  mill-smoke.     In  the  earlier  years 

No  harder  was  his  lot  than  many  a  one 

Which  still,  upon  the  whole,  brings  happiness 

That  makes  life  worth  the  living.     But  too  soon 

Poverty  taught  him  more  than  any  child, 

Could  we  direct  these  things,  should  ever  know. 

One  day,  toward  noontime,  taking  to  the  mill 

His  father's  pail,  he,  pausing  in  the  door, 

Saw  a  great  crucible  swing  overhead, 

Moving  along  the  runways  of  the  cranes, 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP  5 

And  then  poise, —  sway  with   rending  jar, —  and  fall, 

Scattering  a  hail  of  fire,  a  cataract 

Of  white  and   glowing  steel,   that  gulfed   three  men, — 

One  man  his  father, —  in  the  awful  flood. 

He  told  me  this;  and  without  words  I  knew 

How,   like  the  searing  touch  of  that  fierce  stream, 

The  sight  had  burned  itself  upon  his  brain, — 

A  thing  to  tremble  at  when  in  the  night 

Those  spectres  rose.     And  unforgettingly 

Had  passed  before  his  eyes  the  house  of  grief, 

Where  terror  of  the  future  almost  numbed 

The  present  sorrow.     Then  came  poverty, 

And  vain  appeals  to  the  calm  men  who  sat 

In  the  mill's  office  with  their  desks  and  files 

Of  many  papers;  the  recourse  at  last 

To  one  of  those  grey  wolves  who  sometimes  hunt 

Under  the  law's  cloak;  the  unending  trial 

That  sapped  the  widow's  final  hoard :  —  these  things, 

Seen  by  a  child  who  with  his  mother  stood, 

Three  younger  ones  beside  him,  and  looked  out 

Into  the  endless  and  appalling  void 

Of  destitution,  could  not  be  forgot, 

But  needs  must  bend  the  corners  of  the  mouth 

And  sink  the  eyes  to  sparks  in  their  deep  caves. 

Before  the  law  remediless  they  stood, 

Smitten  by  chance,  that  untamed  walks  the  earth ; 

Yet,  that  being  true,  how  little  did  it  feed 


6  THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

The  hungry  mouths!     How  utterly  their  fate 
Upon  them  must  have  fallen  like  the  blow 
Of  evil  and  malignant  deity. 

He  never  told  me  how  he  struggled  on: 

It  was  not  hard  to  guess, —  the  crumpled  years 

Of  childhood,  till  at  last  he  reached  that  age, 

So  pitifully  young,  at  which  the  poor 

Think  children  may  go  forth  to  earn  their  bread. 

Into  the  mills  he  went:  there  many  years 

He  worked  among  the  crucibles,  as  worked 

His  father  once  before  him.     But  when  death 

Came  to  his  mother,  and  some  distant  kin 

Took  the  three  other  children,  he  threw  off 

The  hateful  bondage;  and  went  wandering  forth 

Westward,  to  newer  regions  where  a  life 

Not  cursed  with  the  old  curse  might  wait  for  him. 

He  was  a  silent  man,  who  made  no  friends 

Among  his  lighter  comrades;  though  goodwill 

Was  not  refused  him.     He   had  little  talk, 

And  that  was  mostly  of  the  needful  things, — 

Weather,  and  care  of  horses,  and  the  sheep. 

But  sometimes  would  a  chance  word  start  his  speech 

Into  a  burst  of  sombre  eloquence 

Or  smouldering  passion, —  all  on  one  fixed  theme, 

The  wrongs  of  laborers.     Once  I  came  on  him 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

Out  in  the  stableyard,  haranguing  there, 

With  unaccustomed  fervency,  a  group 

Of  scoffing  sheepherders.     I   heard   him  say  — 

"  It  is  the  hell-fire  burning  at  earth's  core. — 

Men  slave  like  dogs  to  earn  the  right  to  live 

Like  dogs:  the  profit  of  their  labor  falls 

From  their  starved  fingers.     All  the  sightless  rich 

Are  leagued  together  to  oppress  and  crush 

The  laborer.     He  cannot  lift  his  head, 

Or  down  into  the  trampled  dust  they  fling 

Him  and   his  children.     You  have  never  seen, 

As  I  have,  the  fierce  hell  that,  in  the  mills 

And  out  of  them,  enfolds  those  living  men. 

No  one  sees  things  as  I  do!  .  .  ." 

Looking  back 

In  memory  now,  I  think  his  brooding  nights 
And  silent  days  all  circled   round  that  thought, 
Which  drew  and  held  him  with  a  baleful  power 
Until  its  image  grew,  towered,  loomed  above 
All  else,  and  blotted  out  the  universe 
With  its  oppressive  shadow. 

Once  he  said  — 

"  Children  of  sorrow  cannot  be  released. 
They  are  blind,  leaderless;  and  if  Moses  led, 
Out  of  the  Wilderness  toward  the  Promised  Land, 


8  THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

No  one  would  follow.     Now  each  blow  that  falls 
Upon  the  race  falls  heaviest  on  their  backs. 
They  are  the  buffers  of  misfortune." 

Words 

Half-biblical  were  his  when  thus  he  spoke, 
As  sometimes  is  the  wTay  of  simple  men 
Speaking  with  earnestness  from  crowded  hearts. 

One  day  I  said  —     "  Surely  it  is  some  fault 

That  keeps  men  common  laborers  all  their  lives. 

To  good  men  comes  an  opportunity  " — 

He  answered  —    "  In  the  valley  where  they  live 

Nothing  comes  ever  but  the  smoke  of  hell; 

And  their  wild  cries,  rising,  would  shake  the  world 

If  it  had  blood,  not  iron,  in  its  veins." 

Much  more  he  said,  which  I  have  long  forgot, — 

Wild  words  that  seethed  from  out  some  chaos  shut 

Close  in  his  breast.     He  was  a  sombre  man; 

Sometimes  absurd  and  sometimes  terrible. 

It  was  that  Spring, —  that  memorable  Spring, — 

When  from  mysterious  space  the  Comet  came 

Blazing  upon  us.     And  I  well  recall 

How,  long  foretold  by  savants  ere  to  sight 

Of  human  eye  its  shape  was  visible, 

It  stirred,  among  the  ignorant,  dim  fears 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

And  wild  conjecture;  so  that  some  believed 
It  would  destroy  this  globe,  or  with  its  train 
Of  fatal  gases  kill  all  breathing  life. 
We,  like  the  rest,  as  the  high  day  approached 
When  it  should  sweep  most  closely  to  the  earth, 
Made  our  bad  jokes,  and  bantered  to  and  fro 
Talk  of  the  hour  when  debts  and  sins  should  end ; 
And  planned  to  die  in  drink ;  and  such  poor  chaff. 
"  Larson,"  I  said,  "  you,  probably,  alone 
Will  be  alive  on  earth  when  it  has  passed  — 
For  you  are  used  to  breathing  Pittsburgh  air, 
And  nothing  matters  after  that." 

"  No,  no," 

Another  of  us  grinned,  "  Larson  will  crawl 
Under  his  own  eyebrows,  and  hide  there  safe 
Till  all  is  past." 

And  then  we  laughed  again. 
But  Larson,  who  had  listened  to  our  talk 
With  an  intentness  grave  beyond  its  worth, 
Smiled  not  at  all.     He  fixed  on  us  the  gaze 
Of  eyes  like  sparks, —  not  angry,  but  possessed 
By  some  more  secret  vision  of  his  own 
And  far  removed  from  us ;  —  and  while  we  laughed 
He  left  us  quietly  without  reply. 
And  for  some  days  thereafter,  he  would  walk 


io  THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

Much  by  himself,  and  scan  the  starry  sky 
Alone  at  night,  and  mutter  broken  words, 
And  start  when  spoken  to. 

Then  came  the  time 
To  send  a  herder  to  relieve  that  one 
Who,  for  a  month's  term,  had  kept  lonely  watch 
Over  the  sheep  upon  the  upland  ranch 
Sixty  miles  distant.     No  one  loved  the  task; 
Hence  in  recurrent  order  all  the  men 
Served  out  their  turn.     Now  in  its  sequence  due 
Was  Larson's  month  at  hand, —  a  month  of  Spring. 
And  so  we  sent  him  out  one  April  day, 
Out  from  the  noisy  banter  of  our  midst, 
To  the  monotonous  vigil  of  the  heights. 
I  see  him  still  as  he  rode  hillward, —  gaunt, 
Ungraceful  on  his  horse,  looking  not  back 
With  any  sign  of  parting,  but  alone 
And  facing  grimly  forward, —  a  gray  shape 
In  the  first  dawnlight,  growing  ever  less 
Against  the  distant  slopes. 

In  three  days,  came 

Back  from  the  hill-ranch  he  whose  cheerless  month 
At  last  was  over.     A  great  boisterousness 
And  a  great  need  of  drink  possessed  his  soul ; 
But  when  the  first  was  spent,  the  last  assuaged, 
He  spoke  of  Larson :  — 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP  11 

"  What  is  all  this  talk 
About  the  Comet?     Is  it  really  near? 
Larson  has  told  me  it  is  sweeping  on 
A  million  miles  an  hour,  toward  the  earth, 
A  terrible  portent,  coming  to  rain  down 
Mysterious  influences  of  evil  power 
Upon  the  world,  but  chiefly  upon  those 
Who  labor  in  the  mills.     When  it  is  past, 
No  toiler  ever  will  draw  happy  breath, 
But  only  choked  with  evil.     They  must  die, 
Or  by  the  awful  gases  be  transformed 
Into  corroded  miserable  beings 
With  lives  of  agony." 

The  men  all  laughed. 

I  did  not  laugh;  for  something  in  the  strange 
Fathomless  shadow  which  I  always  felt 
Deep  within  Larson's  mind  loomed  now  to  me 
Dimly  foreboding.     But  the  man  went  on:  — 

"  He  said  to  me,  shortly  before  I  left, 

Things  like  a  book,  or  like  the  words  I  heard 

Once  from  a  pulpit.     He's  a  curious  one; 

This  is  the  way  he  talked :  —     '  My  thoughtless  friend, 

The  evil  days  have  come;  curses  shall  fall 

Upon  men  from  the  heavens,  but  most  on  those 

Who  most  are  cursed  already.     O  prepare! 


12  THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

For  the  time  approaches.     Go:  carry  to  the  world 
Tidings  from  me  that  men  must  now  atone. 
I  have  thought  long,  and  light  at  last  has  dawned 
I,  only  I,  know  wherefore  this  has  come 
Toward  earth,  and  of  what  evils  it  is  sign, 
And  the  one  hope  to  save  the  world.     Atone! 
Atone  for  evil  suffered  and  evil  done, 
Ye  men  of  sorrow!     Who  shall  now  arise, 
Not  leader,  but  apart  from  all,  to  fight 
The  sole  and  dreadful  battle  for  the  race  ?  ' 
Much  more  he  said;  I  did  not  understand 
Half  that  he  spoke  besides.     At  any  rate, 
The  hill-ranch  is  a  lonesome  place  to  be 
If  one  has  only  such  thoughts  on  his  mind." 

Lonesome  indeed !     And  yet  I  did  not  speak 

Nor  act, —  as  we  so  often  in  our  lives 

Refrain  from  speech  or  deed  until  too  late 

For  all  except  regret.     But  when  four  days 

Had  passed,  uneasiness  laid  hold  of  me. 

It  seemed  barbaric  torture,  thus  condemning 

To  banishment  on  solitary  heights 

A  man  pursued  by  demons  of  the  soul. 

So  I  determined  on  a  four  days'  tour 

To  see  the  mountains,  meaning  to  delay 

One  day  with  Larson,  with  what  cheer  I  could 

Bringing  some  respite  to  his  solitude. 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP  13 

Therefore  next  morning  I  proceeded  forth 

With  one  good  rancher.     The  unchanging  sweep 

Flowed  by  on  either  side  as  all  day  long 

We  traversed  the  monotonous  sage-brush  plains, 

A  fiery  sun  above  us;  all  day  long 

The  distant  mountains  slowly  crept  more  near, 

Not  changing  as  we  watched,  yet  every  hour 

More  towering  than  the  last.     And  just  at  dusk 

Weary,  we  saw  ahead  the  upland  ranch. 

I  had  not  visited  the  place  till  now ; 

And  curiously  I  scanned  it  as  we  rode, — 

Saw  the  gray  flocks  grow  plain  upon  the  slopes, 

And  the  small  cabin  and  the  stable-yard 

Loftily  builded.     We  could  not  descry 

Larson  afar,  nor  hear  him  make  response 

To  our  loud  greetings.     On  we  went,  the  night 

Falling  around  us,  though  some  silvery  gleam 

Still  shone  across  the  west.     Ahead,  the  hill 

Rose  steep;  and  in  that  treeless  land,  one  tree, 

Shattered  by  wind,  stood  black  against  the  sky 

Above  the  hilltop,  centring  the  long  slopes 

Toward  it.     And  then  the  tree  drew  all  my  gaze 

By  some  ambiguous  strangeness  in  its  shape  — 

Straight,  blasted,  with  two  stumps  of  limbs,  confused 

Masses  of  leafage  on  its  trunk.     My  thought 

Forgot  the  man  we  sought  as  I  pressed  on 

Toward  the  stiff  tree;  and  then,  suddenly  cold, 


I4  THE  MAN  ON  THE  HILLTOP 

A  weakness  closed  like  fangs  upon  my  heart: 
I  saw  the  man  had  crucified  himself. 

There  on  a  cross  of  heavy  beams  he  hung, 

Nails  through  his  feet  and  through  one  open  hand, 

While  with  the  other  hand  he  limply  clutched 

At  the  rough  cross-piece.     And  around  him  clung 

A  dusk  of  agony.     His  sunken  eyes 

Opened  not;  but  at  sound  of  our  quick  steps 

His  lips  moved  feebly  and  he  spoke:  — 

"  Have  peace. 

All  has  been  done:  the  evils  are  atoned; 
They  shall  go  by  and  trouble  men  no  more. 
This  last  curse  on  the  bowed  heads  shall  not  fall: 
On  theirs  it  shall  not  fall,  but  mine,  mine,  mine, 
Which  has  received  it  for  the  whole  world's  sake. 
I  have  been  chosen,  I  have  been  sent  forth 
Up  to  the  hill-tops  and  the  desert  places 
There  to  atone,  atone.     All  has  been  done. 
Fear  not;  the  doom  is  past." 

And  when  at  length 
From  that  most  awful  eminence  we  bore 
His  broken  form,  his  lips  moved,  but  no  breath 
Came  from  between  them.     And  he  shortly  died. 

Shadows  are  round  him  in  my  memory. 
Mad;  but  a  great  heart,  an  heroic  heart. 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

HIGH,  high  above  the  thatched  roofs  of  the  town,- 
An  hundred  times  more  high  than  lifts  the  tower 
Of  the  Cathedral, —  higher  than  the  song 
Of  nightingale  ascends,  or  swallow's  wing  — 
There,  where  the  splintered  cliff  dizzily  drops, 
Sheerer  than  headland  of  Gibraltar's  straits, 
In  one  precipitous  rock-cloven  wall 
To  low-lying  fields, —  there  stands  an  ancient  House 
Of  refuge  and  secluded  holiness. 

Toward  it  at  sunset  from  the  plains  I  came, 
Through  long  defiles  ascending,  past  gaunt  slopes 
And  barren  gullies  of  the  wind-swept  hills 
Tenantless  as  the  moon.     Upon  the  crests 
The  light  still  shone;  though  far  below,  the  dusk 
Covered  the  fields  and  with  the  fear  of  night 
Amid  these  wilds  o'ertaking  me,  urged  on 
My  climbing  feet. 

Suddenly  on  a  crag 

That  century-beaten,  gray-walled   monastery 
Against  the  solemn  fires  of  the  west 
Lifted  its  battlements  and  pointed  roofs 
And  faintly  smoking  chimneys,  in  the  dusk 
Bastions  of  grayness.     My  approaching  step 
Echoed  upon  the  drawbridge,  whose  frail  span 
Across  a  narrow  deeply-cloven  chasm 
Hung  tremulous.     Through  the  dim  portal  arch 

15 


1 6  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

And  low  cold  passageways  of  mouldering  stone 

I  passed,  in  wonder  at  these  massive  walls; 

And  stood  in  the  gray  court, —  as  empty  now 

As  though  its  vanished  centuries  had  borne 

With  them  away  into  far  gulfs  of  Time 

What  life  had  once  found  place  here.     On  three  sides, 

The  alcoved  galleries  of  the  cloisters  rose, 

Half-ruined,   cheerless:   on   the   fourth,   a  gate 

Out  toward  a  platform  opened,  where  the  rock 

Became  the  precipice.     There  spread  the  West 

A  burning  flood  before  me,  and  the  peaks 

Of  the  white  Pindus  from  it  rising  up 

Like  snow-capped  islands;  and  far,  far  below, 

Even  at  my  feet,  submerged  beneath  the  tide 

Of  shadowy  haze,  the  plains  of  Thessaly. 

Then  in  the  high  still  air  a  bell  began 
Somewhere  its  vesper  tolling;  and   those  sounds, 
Blurring  and  blending  with  recurrent  strokes, 
Drifted  about  me,  islanded  aloft 
Upon  that  far-seeing  headland ;  while  below, 
Small  and  remote,  the  villages  of  the  plain 
Withdrew  into  the  mists  of  eventide. 
And  pausing  thus,  upon  my  spirit  came 
That  nameless  sense, —  like  odour  in  a  dream, — 
Of  ending  Summer  and  the  sudden  hour 
Of  the  year's  passing  which  September  brings 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  17 

To  thrall  the  musing  wanderer  on  the  slopes. 
Then  the  bell  ceased ;  and  from  the  chapel  doors 
Poured   St.   Stephanos'  holy  Brethren  forth, 
Dark  men  and  bearded,  clad  in  girdled  robes, — 
The  garb  of  those  who  from  the  general  band 
Of  priesthood  had  themselves  to  single  life 
Vowed,  and  to  poverty, —  not  the  common  lot 
For   clergy  of   Byzantium.     Forth   they  strode 
With  kindly  faces  and  the  greeting  hands 
That  are  the  portion  of  a  stranger  chanced 
From  the  great  world  unto  monastic  walls, — 
About  whose  base  the  seething  tide  of  days 
Beats  with  tumultuous  surges,  casting  up 
To  this  lone  height  rarely  a  drop  of  spray 
Or  sound  articulate  of  the  dizzy  strife. 

With    friendly   cheer,   they   took   my   pack   and   staff; 
And  led  me  to  the  ancient  raftered  hall 
Where,  round  a  board  sufficient  for  the  need 
Of  three-score  Brethren,  the  remaining  few, — 
Seven  and  the  Abbot, —  took  their  daily  fare. 
Diminished  now  that  ancient  company 
Which  in  the  darker  ages  here  maintained 
A  citadel  of  peace  amid  wild  wars. 
Paler,  this  band,  and  of  less  dominant  blood, — 
Yet  Brethren  of  great  St.  Stephanos  still, 
And  heritors  of  those  who  once  upreared 


1 8  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

This  lonely  fortress  for  the  praise  of  God. 

Strange  men,  strange  heritors,  these  my  hosts  to-night; 

With  whom  I  sat,  and  ate  the  evening  meal 

Of  kid  and  lentils  and  thin  acid  wine 

With  resin  steeped, —  scant  fare,  befitting  priests 

Vowed  unto  poverty  in  a  meagre  land, — 

Not  milk  and  honey ;  —  and  heard  the  simple  talk 

Of  the  old  Abbot, —  how  the  Summer  closed 

Early  this  year;  and  how  the  long  ascent 

Had  left  me  weary,  doubtless.     And  this  speech 

Of  common  things  which  drifted  to  and  fro 

Served  but  to  fill  me  with  a  keener  sense 

Of  utter  strangeness.     Round  our  casual  talk 

I   felt  great  vistas  opening  pathless  out, — 

Unsounded  hopes  and  passions  of  these  hearts, 

Alien  to  mine.     From  these  unfathomed  eyes 

Looked  forth  the  keepers  of  a  secret  life 

Upon  a  separate  world,  to  me  unknown. 

Their  gaze  beheld  another  sun  than  mine; 

The  very  breeze  to  them  not  as  to  me 

Bore  waftures  of  unrest  or  peace  or  pain; 

Within  their  souls  a  different  dream  of  heaven 

Sustained  or  tortured.     And  that  wonder  grew 

As  down  the  table  from  grave  face  to  face 

My  glances  strayed;  and  strong  my  passion  burned 

To  know  what  meaning  filled  their  thoughts  and  days, — 

What  boundaries  and  what  contours  marked  the  world 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  19 

Which,  through  the  strange  refraction  of  the  soul, 
Each  one  surveyed,  alone 

Methought   they  seemed, — 

These   Brethren   of   the    Heights, —  kind,   simple   hearts, 
Rude  shepherds  of  rude  flocks,  unlettered,  slow, 
Habituated  to  the  pious  days 
And  narrow  duties  of  the  monastery. 
Within  those  eyes  no  subtler  passion  leaped 
Than  dogmas  of  corporeal  heaven  and  hell 
Might  teach  them:  and  their  little  round  of  being, 
Changeless,  sufficient,  circumscribed  and  pure, 
Passed  like  the  herdsman's  in  the  lowlier  plains  — 
Daylight  to  dusk,  and  year  to  year,  one  course 
Of  unreflective  tasks  that  left  no  trace 
Upon  the  scroll  of  inward  history. 

But  one  among  the  Brethren,  whom  the  rest 
Called  Theodorus,  seemed  of  other  mould 
Than  all  his  fellows.     In  his  face  the  South 
Spoke  warm  and   radiant.     Something  in  his  gaze 
Like  hesitant  intensity  of  fire 

That  flickered,  clung,  and  died, —  or  the  full  lips 
And  delicate  profile,  bringing  to  my  mind 
A  poet  of  pale  beauties,  lately  dead, 
Whom  now  his  land  acclaimed, —  or  the  desire 
Hardly  concealed,  which  made  his  features  glow 
Attentively  a  listener  as  I  told 


20  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

Some  curious  traveller's  tale, —  these  drew   my  thought 

Recurrently  to  him.     And  when  his  smile 

Gleamed  with  a  flash  of  eagerness  for  joy, 

Like  starlight  among  candles,  then  I  felt 

A  sudden  pang  of  pity.     Here,  methought, 

Was  one  to  whom  the  lusty  sinful  world 

Was  not  well  lost, —  in  whom  still  burned  the  spark 

Of  love  for  all  which  faith  calls  vanity. 

His  face  betrayed  the  harp  vibrant  within. 

The  call  of  beauty  never  unto  him 

Were  cold,  unmeaning.     Each  mysterious  voice 

Which  from  the  loveliness  of  hill  or  cloud 

Or  dream  or  music  calls  our  blood,  as  calls 

The  west  wind   to   the  waves, —  these  things  would  be 

For  him  the  secret  masters  of  his  soul. 

And  while  his  Brethren  mounted  to  Heaven's  Gate 

With  calm  unswerving  steps,  him  must  the  breath 

Of  Maytide  mornings  make  their  quivering  sport. 

A  bird-note  could  whirl  chaos  through  his  prayer. 

His  vowed  allegiance  to  the  Virgin  Throne 

Must  waver  at  the  beauty  of  a  flower 

Or  the  soft  curve  of  some  girl's  shadowy  throat 

Seen  in  the  dusk.     And  if  at  last  he  gained 

The  prophets'  Paradise,  it  needs  must  be 

By  hard-won  mastery  which  to  ruder  souls 

Were  all  unknown.     Perilous  lay  the  road, 

Through  chanting  vales,  to  his  celestial  home. 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  21 

At  length  the  meal  was  ended ;  and  we  passed 
In  straggling  twos  and  threes  out  of  the  hall 
To  the  rock-platform,  where  the  stars  looked  down 
Brilliantly  on  us,  and  the  gulf  beneath 
Lay  vague  and  fathomless.     Beside  me  paced 
Now  Theodorus,  as  in  eager  talk 
He  held  me  from  the  rest;  with  outstretched  arm 
Pointing     this     place     and     that, —  towns,     mountains, 

streams, — 

All  hidden  in  the  night.     And  one  by  one 
The  Brethren  left  us  for  their  evening  tasks; 
He  only  lingered  yet. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said 

"  How  moves  the  world  in  Athens?     Do  they  still 
Place  little  tables  at  the  cafe  doors, 
And  sit  all  afternoon,  and  watch  the  crowds, 
And  smoke  and  talk?     And  do  the  soldiers  drill 
Out  beyond  Lycabettus  as  they  used? 
And  the  Pirasus,  that  bright  sinful  port, 
Do  the  great  ships  still  crowd  the  harbor's  mouth, 
And  boatmen  throng  the  wharves  ?  —    Or  has  the  world 
Grown  quieter  than  in  my  day?" 

"  The  world," 

I  answered,  "  is  not  quick  to  change  its  ways. 
I  think  that  you  would  find  all  things  the  same, 


22  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

Even  to  the  tables, —  where  three  days  ago 
I  sat  and  smoked  and  watched  the  crowds  go  by, 
And  saw  the  King  pass  with  his  shining  guards 
And  troops  of  cavalry." 

His  attentive  eyes 
Gleamed  with  the  picture. 

"  And  when  did  you  last 

See  white-walled  Athens?"  I  with  idle  thought 
Questioned    him.     And   with   slow   words  he    replied  - 
"Twelve  years  ago:  then  I  became  a  priest."  .  .  . 
And  spoke  no  more;  but  shortly  turned  away, 
Murmuring  of  his  tasks  that  must  be  done. 

Then  paced  I  silently  the  platform's  bounds; 
As,  on  some  farthest  rampart  of  the  world, 
Alone,  at  night,  a  spirit  from  the  stars 
Beyond  Orion  might  alight  and  pace; 
And  looking  down  upon  the  sleeping  earth 
From  that  secluded  outpost's  icy  height, 
Marvel  in  silence  on  the  pageant  spread 
Beneath  his  vision,  with  the  crowded  thoughts 
Of  one  whose  being  had  therein  no  part. 
And  for  this  spirit  tenanting  my  breast 
Wonder  was  dominant, —  labyrinthine  moods, — 
And  sense  not  of  the  kinship  of  mankind 
But  of  Life's  strangeness  and  the  infinite  forms 
Of  days  and  destinies. 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  23 

The  processional  stars 
Moved  slow  above  me.     As  I  tarried  still, 
Out  of  the  cloisters  Theodorus  came 
And  silently  rejoined  me;  and  our  steps 
Sounded  together,  back  and  forth  the  rock. 
The  great  hush  of  the  hour,  the  shroud  of  dark, 
Stifling  all  echoes  of  departed  day, 
Enfolded  us.     We  were  alone  with  night, — 
Night,  that  in  such  a  silence  seems  to  drop 
The  measureless  beatings  of  gigantic  wings 
On  the  frail  heart.     With  such  a  presence  close, 
Our  deep  seclusion  from  the  sleeping  world, 
Our  slow  concordant  footfalls,  wove  a  sense 
Of  some  strange  bond  between  us  as  we  strode 
Mute  and  together.     On  that  barrier-ledge, 
Raised  like  an  altar  to  the  lifeless  stars, 
A  magic  greater  than  old  fellowship 
Drew  me  to  him  with  whom  I  seemed  alone 
In  the  vast  dusk:  across  the  trackless  seas 
That  sunder  man   from  man,   my  thought   reached   out 
Unto  this  alien,  who  for  one  strange  hour 
Seemed  as  a  brother. 

Something  bade  me  say, 
After  long  silence  — "  I  could  half  believe 
That  all  the  world  lay  dead  beneath  our  feet, 
And  you  and  I  upon  this  lonely  rock 
Solely  remained." 


24  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

"  Sometimes  not  more  alone  " 
He  said,  "  than  thus,  is  one  who  strays  afar 
Circled  by  minds  that  have  a  different  birth." 
And  through  the  darkness  his  unquiet  eyes 
Seemed  bent  upon  me. 

Well  I  knew  he  spoke 

With  thought  of  me,  a  stranger;  but  to  me 
An  alienage  profounder  than  my  own 
Seemed  to  encircle  him;  and  to  his  words 
I  answered,  with  his  keen  impassioned  face 
Vivid  before  my  sight. — 

"  My  friend,"  I  said, 
"  For  you  this  pinnacle  must  be  a  tomb : 
You  need  the  sunlands." 

And  he  understood, 

And  flushed,  with  changing  eyes,  as  though  my  words 
Had  touched  the  harp-strings  in  his  breast  and  waked 
Unutterable  voices. 

"  No,"  he  cried, 
"No  land  — but  life!"  .  .  . 

His  speech  faltered  away; 
And  I  could  feel  beneath  the  burdened  words 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  25 

An  impulse, —  rare  in  our  cold  northern  race, — 

The  longing  to  reveal  to  alien  eyes 

Things  that  perhaps  could  never  be  revealed 

Save  to  a  stranger, —  one  whose  path  lay  far, 

So  far  that  never  any  later  day 

Of  faith  turned  bitter  could  bring  forth  regret 

That  he  had  spoken. 

But  no  words  I  said, 
Being  unwilling  to  invite  his  speech 
Unless  his  heart  impelled  him;  I  but  drew 
A  little  closer,  with  attentive  ear: 
While  ministry  of  silence  told  my  mood 
With  greater  eloquence  than  mortal  tongue 
Could  master,  doubtless;  and  I  heard  his  breath, 
And  tremors  seemed  to  shake  him;  and  at  last 
From  subterranean  chambers  hid  from  light, 
Long  sealed  and  voiceless,  now  in  broken  words, 
With  many  a  pause  and  space  for  groping  thought, 
Poured  forth  such  speech  as  from  no  other  man 
I  ever  heard,  nor  like  shall  hear  again. 

"  I  think  that  you  are  one  who  understands. 
When  our  eyes  met  across  the  board  to-night 
You  looked  at  me  with  glance  that  well  might  read 
Something  of  those  dim  travails  of  the  mind 
Which  to  the  Brethren  here  upon  the  rock 


26  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

Possess  no  being.     Righteous  men  are  these, 
But  peasant-priests,  half-kindred  to  the  herds, 
Ignorant  of  the  strange  convulsive  powers 
That  may  inhabit  us.  ... 

"  My   stranger-friend, 

Things  long  repressed  burn  on  my  lips  to-night, 
Born  of  your  look,  your  voice."  .  .  . 

Gently  I  said 

"  I  will  devote  my  heart  to  understand." 
And  at  those  words,  he  spoke  —  as  Winter  snows 
In  the  Spring  floods  sweep  o'er  the  thirsty  lands. — 

"  You  find  me  here,  a  Brother  in  the  halls 
Of  St.  Stephanos;  but  my  birth  was  far 
In  southern  islands,  where  the  Cyclades 
Lie  like  a  barrier  westward  from  one  isle :  — 
O  isle  of  brightness  I  shall  not  know  again, 
Mykonos,  bride  of  sea-winds  and  the  sea! 
My  home,  amid  the  windmills  on  the  heights, 
Looked  out  toward  Delos  and  the  western  waves 
Wherein  the  sun  sank  down  each  eventide 
With  hues  that  were  to  me  song  poured  from  heaven, 
A  wild  enchantment,  drawing  forth  my  soul 
In  longing  for  all  beauty.     On  the  hills 
Of  her,  my  rocky  island,  as  a  boy 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  27 

I  walked  in  vision;  and  the  ancient  tales 
Of  Homer,  and  the  legends  of  the  shrine 
That  once  was  crown  of  Delos,  and  the  forms 
And  colors  and  wild  odours  which  my  dreams 
Wove  from  the  sunsets  and  the  changing  spray, 
Wrought  in  my  soul  a  passion,  a  desire 
Past  understanding,  for  exalted  deeds 
And  life  that  should  be  beautiful,  like  the  Gods! 
I  was  a  Pagan,  with  the  bards  who  sang 
Once  from  these  isles  the  praises  of  the  fair 
Golden  Apollo.     From  some  headland  rock, 
Looking  across  the  waves,  I  could  have  raised 
My  paean,  too,  of  sacrificial  joy 
Unto  the  deities  of  sun  and  sea! 

I  scarce  remember  in  what  forms  I  dreamed ; 
Yet  well  I  know  that  dreams  by  night  and  day 
Moved  where  I  moved,  building  a  world  apart 
From  unregarded  casual  daily  things. 
I  dwelt  among  those  moments,  few  and  crowning, 
Which  chronicle  and  legend  garner  up 
From  the  lone  triumphs  of  heroic  hearts, — 
Time's  precious  harvest,  slowly  winnowed  forth 
Out  of  the  lives  of  thousands  who  go  down 
Barren  of  such  a  radiant  grain.     All  peaks 
Whence  man  views  life  as  lord :  —  what  Jason  saw 
With  the  first  hope,  and  at  the  final  goal; 


28  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

What  Alexander  felt  when  the  last  gate 
Of  secret  Eastern  city  fell,  and  kings 
Knelt  at  his  chariot;  what  Euripides 
Knew  as  the  multitude  with  bated  breath 
Quivered  and  was  dumb  to  hear  Electra  speak :  — 
Out  of  such  marvelous  fragments  as  these  things 
I  wrought  my  fair  mosaic,  that  served  my  faith 
As  pattern  of  the  world  and  of  man's  life. 

Ah,  1  was  happy!  but  no  more  content 
Than  ever  man  is.     My  enkindled  thoughts, 
Fed  upon  visions,  whispered  that  afar 
And  yet  untasted  lay  that  sunlit  world 
Whereof  the  pallid  moon-dreams  of  my  youth 
Were  but  a  shadow  and  a  prophecy. 
Glowing,  it  called  me  toward  the  richer  days 
Of  which  my  hope  breathed  and  the  poets  sung. 
Now  must  the  mystery,  long  viewed  afar, — 
Life,  Life  itself,  unbosom  unto  me 
Its  beautiful  meaning.     Wherefore  did  I  stay, 
Tarrying  in  the  porch  before  the  shrine? 
Nay,  I  would  enter  to  the  inmost  hall, 
To  the  close  presence  of  that  deity 
Who,  though  remote,  with  palpitant  glowing  touch 
Had  waked  divinest  madness  in  my  breast, 
And  the  dim  promise  of  sharp  loveliness, 
And  uttermost  longing  for  the  clasp  of  Life. 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  29 

Therefore,  obedient  to  that  stirring  call 
Heard  in  lone  hours,  filled  with  exalted  thought, 
I  left  my  rocky  island  and  keen  spray 
Of  salty  winds,  and  unto  Athens  came, 
There  to  abide  and  earn  my  bread  and  find 
The  undiscovered  marvels  of  my  fate. 
And  can  you  picture, —  you,  with  thoughtful  eyes, — 
How  in  the  city  fared  that  dreaming  boy, 
Credulous  still  of  all  the  golden  tales 
Which  from  the  poets'  music  and  the  light 
Of  sunset-wests  he  had  distilled  to  drops 
Of  keener  essence?     Can  your  vision  pierce 
The  coarse  engulfing  crowds  of  teeming  men 
Down  to  the  last  deep,  where  in  shrinking  doubt, 
I,     child     and     dreamer,     moved, —  first     whelmed     by 

power ;  — 

Then  lost,  as,  by  some  spell,  the  pomp  and  stress 
Crumbled  about  me, —  and   I  stood  alone 
In  a  vast  desert.     Dust,  pitiful  dust 
Lay  that  existence  in  my  shrinking  hand. 
Where  was  the  lofty  doom  my  dreams  had  sung? 
Where  were  the  ecstasies  and  the  hours  of  flame? 
Bewildered  grew  the  promise  of  my  soul, 
As  the  world's  business,  sordid  oft  and  base, 
Seethed  by  me  like  a  nightmare:  all  men's  thoughts 
Seemed  rapt  in  petty  matters  which  like  leaves 
Floated  upon  the  vortex  of  the  hour 


30  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

And  then  were  drowned  beneath  the  on-rushing  stream, 

Forgotten  and  unmemorable.     Those  hearts 

In  whom,  methought,  long  intercourse  of  life 

Had  surely  stored  some  more-revealing  sense 

Of  what  our  being  meant,  and  what  was  good, 

And  where  the  true  goal  for  our  striving  lay, — 

Those,  intricately  netted,  seemed  to  dwell 

A  thousand  fathoms  deep  beneath  the  tide 

Of  fragmentary  labors  toward  no  end, 

Like  play  of  madmen.     None,  of  all  I  saw, 

Felt  the  great  doubts  that  hem  our  mortal  lot, 

Or  looked  with  wonder  toward  the  tranquil  stars 

Or  into  the  far  depths  of  his  own  soul. 

Unguided  conflict, —  random  ebb  and  flow 

Of  days  and  deeds, —  confusion  of  one  force 

Smiting  against  another  in  its  path, — 

What  could  I  make  of  these  unreasoned  things? 

And  to  my  sense,  fevered  with  strange  dismay, 

Men  loomed  like  brutes  who  in  the  forest  roved, 

Whose  history  was  recorded  by  gnawed  roots 

And   trampled   grasses, —  and  white  bones  at  last. 

Another  race  they  seemed ;  yet  as  I  dwelt 
There  in  the  town,  and  labored  at  my  trade 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  them,  slowly  passed 
That  sense  of  alienage.     Into  my  thought 
Slowly  there  entered,  gradual  bit  by  bit, 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  31 

Some  consonance  with  theirs.     By  painful  steps 

I  came  to  know  why  toiling  men  put  by 

The  visions  that  had  nurtured  them  in  youth. 

I  saw  the  vanity  of  the  rootless  joy 

Which  youth  and  beauty  foster  till  the  hour 

When  weight  of  burdens  kills  the  fragile  bloom. 

The  harshness  of  the  actual  iron  world 

Broke  in  upon  my  spirit.     I  beheld 

Bitter  realities  as  the  ruling  force 

Upon  this  pitiful  soul  of  ours,  which  strains 

Heavenward  on  frail  wings.     I  saw  the  dream, 

Woven  of  all  the  past's  enchanted  gold, 

Shattered  by  those  necessities  which  ride 

With  vast  material  dominance  through  the  realm 

Of  spiritual  being.     I  saw  earth,  sea, 

Time,  space,  all  yield,  reluctant,  to  the  toil 

Of  man  who  in  that  desperate  flux  and  press 

Battles  for  barely  life.     Until  at  last 

I,  also,  cast  all  hope  and  rapture  by; 

Acknowledged  me  as  servant  of  cruel  powers, — 

A  pigmy  struggling  in  a  tragic  world 

For  mere  existence:  —  I,  who  late  had  thought 

To  choose  among  the  destinies  of  the  Gods 

For  which  should  best  accord  wTith  my  desire! 

Thereupon  I  became  as  other  men, 

Spending  my  heart  upon  each  worthless  task, 

Incurious  of  the  meaning;  and,  as  they, 


32  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

No  longer  scrupulous  of  little  things 

Like  careless  wrongs,  or  other  lives  awry 

By  my  rough  passing:  I  no  longer  set 

Patterns  of  beauty  for  the  weary  soul  ; 

But  as  of  very  need,  accepted  quite 

The  creed  that  was  my  fellows',  half-resigned 

Unto  a  world  of  chaos  ultimate. 

So  the  years  passed,  as  in  the  city's  streets 
I  moved  and  had  my  life,  where  crowded  days 
Stifled  all  pause  for  thought.     Yet  in  the  Spring 
Sometimes  strange  passions  would  revisit  me; 
And  night-long  I  have  lain  awake  to  watch 
The  bright  processions  of  my  former  dreams 
Arise  again  and  pitifully  lead 
Their  ranks  in  holy  wars  to  conquer  back 
The  soul's  lost  empire  from  those  tyrant  powers 
Which  should  have  subject  station  and  obey, 
Not  master,  life.     And  lo!  one  April  noon 
As  o'er  my  task  I  labored,  from  lone  deeps 
Long  buried  in  me,  burst  a  fierce  revolt 
Against  that  creature  which  I  had  become. 
I  cried  —  This  life  of  mine,  this  dull,  misshaped 
And  vegetable  being,  shall  not  be 
My  final  sepulcher!     I  will  arise: 
I  will  go  up  into  the  lofty  places 
Apart  from  all  man's  works,  and  there  commune 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  33 

With  God  and  mine  own  soul.     I  will  search  out 

By  lonely  thought  some  meaning  or  accord 

Or  radiant  sanction  that  may  justify 

The  ways  of  life.     The  void  and  troubled  world 

Will  I  renounce,  to  gain  in  solitude 

What  the  world  gave  not, —  sense  of  life's  design. 

Then  fared  I  toward  the  mountains  of  the  north, 
That  land  behind  us  yonder,  where  the  wastes 
Of  aught  but  God's  own  self  are  tenantless. 
And  wandering  aimless,  in  the  weary  mood 
Of  one  who  finds  the  glories  of  the  earth 
Glamouries  only,  to  this  spot  I  came, — 
A  far  retreat  whose  name  to  me  was  known 
Long  as  a  legend.     When  I  saw  these  walls 
Which  from  their  dizzy  height  looked  calmly  down 
Upon  the  distant  world, —  beheld  the  blue 
Of  tranquil  heaven  around  these  summits  cling, 
Where  no  sound  broke  the  silence  of  the  slopes, 
Lo!  this,  I  felt,  was  my  abiding-place, 
My  spiritual  home,  where  life  might  be 
Once  more  my  own  and  not  the  multitude's. 
Thereupon,  with  glad  zeal,  I  sought  the  gate, 
Begging  admission  to  the  brotherhood ; 
Though  little  holiness  was  in  my  soul 
Save  that  which  God's  omniscient  tender  eyes 
Might  find  in  the  wild  longing  that  was  mine 


34  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

For  something  nobler  than  my  days  had  found. 
And  when  my  rapt  novitiate  was  past, 
I  with  exultant  lips  assumed  the  vow 
Of  life-long  service,  and  irrevocably 
Closed  the  last  portals  of  the  world  behind. 

Peace  here  I  sought,  a  little  peace  from  life, — 
A  little  time  that  might  pass  gently  by 
Afar  from  the  coarse  clamors  of  the  world 
And  purposeless  confusions.     I  would  trace 
In  silence  and  seclusion  that  fine  thread 
On  which  are  strung,  like  fair  or  faded  flowers 
Along  a  garland,  the  successive  days: 
Which  in  the  city's  press  become  a  heap 
Of  crushed  disordered  blossoms,  and  conceal 
The  filament  that  joins  them.     For  meseemed 
That,  as  a  reveler  by  cups  of  wine 
At  last  o'ercome  no  longer  tastes  the  grape 
But  madness  only  —  so  where  life  is  swift 
And  strong  and  tense  and  multitudinous 
Of  forms  and  deeds,  there  life  annulls  itself 
Into  confusion ;  and  the  crowded  years 
Are  filled  with  living  till  no  life  remains. 
Hence  with  great  yearning  I  desired  to  dwell 
Apart  from  these  things,  in  a  place  of  peace 
Where,  from  the  visions  of  the  sunrise  hills 
And  books  and  musing  talk  and  the  low  voice 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  35 

Of  my  own  soul,  I  might  remould  the  world 
Into  a  pattern  beautiful  and  clear. 
My  hope  was  high  to  reconcile  at  last 
The  harsh  disorder  of  the  warring  earth 
With  needs  and  verities  that  dwelt  within.  .  .  . 
I  try  to  tell  you  these  things  but  I  think 
I  cannot  pour  their  meaning  into  words 
Unless  you  too  already  somewhat  know 
Whereof  I  speak.  .  .  . 

Slow  passed  the  tranquil  days 
Of  my  first  years  in  St.  Stephanos'  walls. 
Prayer,  and  long  service  at  the  altar-place, 
And  common  speech,  and  silence  much  alone, 
Were  mine  as  portion.     But  contentment  dwelt 
No  more  with  me.     Great  weariness  in  its  place 
Became  my  fellow,  and  a  sense  of  foiled 
Inaction  haunted  me,  more  hard  to  bear 
Than  turmoil.     For  the  visions  came  no  more 
Which  once  at  Myconos  had  filled  my  soul; 
Or  if  they  came,  of  little  worth  they  seemed 
To  one  who  had  beheld  the  toiling  world 
And  the  great  pulsing  streams  which  in  the  streets 
Of  crowded  cities  meet  and  part  and  strain 
In  dim  and  purgatorial  confluence. 
Somberly  I  beheld,  with  alien  eyes, 
My  brother-priests  serve  at  the  altar-cross, 


36  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

And  with  untroubled  worship  send  their  souls 

Straight  through  the  incense  to  the  blissful  seat 

Of  God  the  Father.     But  my  lagging  thoughts 

Tarried  behind  upon  the  strong  young  heads 

Of  the  few  shepherds  who,  amid  these  heights 

Now  wandering,  knelt  at  mass  within  our  gates. 

Their  troubled  lives,  their  toil,  their  fears  and  hopes 

Stood  between  me  and  Heaven.     Their  life  was  mine, 

Their  laboring  days  were  mine.     I  felt  arise 

Like  a  great  tide  the  sense  of  fleeting  things  — 

Tenderness,  joy,  labor  and  hope  and  strife, — 

All  ours  a  little  while,  then  to  be  gone; 

But  when  departed,  treasured  in  the  heart 

With  clinging  light  of  old  remembrances. 

I  felt  that  glow,  unutterably  sweet, 

Which  makes  the  love  of  life  haunt  all  our  days 

With  wonder  and  desire.     My  homesick  breast 

Longed  for  the  eager  city  and  its  stress 

Of  meeting  man  with  man :  —  things  theirs,  but  now 

Not  mine  for  evermore.     And  then,  too  late, 

In  certitude  I  knew  myself  one  born 

A  passionate  child  of  life  and  not  of  dreams. 

As  here  I  dwelt  through  slow  unchanging  days, 
This  knowledge  waxed  in  me.     Gone  was  the  hope, 
Eternally,  I  think,  of  infinite  joy 
Awaiting  in  some  fortunate  golden  land. 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  37 

But  the  rude  fellowship  of  the  eager  world 

Called  me,  and  calls  me  still.     I  am  content 

With  quieter  thoughts  than  those  which  once  transformed 

My  being,  as  the  sunlight  a  fair  cloud 

Transfuses  into  wonderful  wreaths  of  gold. 

No  more  do  I  desire  upon  the  hills 

To  stand  at  even,  and  feel  through  my  veins 

Pour  wild  unutterably  stirring  breath 

Of  harmony  with  some  transcendent  lyre 

Singing  where  sunset  faded  down  the  slopes. 

For  I  have  passed  the  magic  of  that  time 

And  youth's  unbodied  visions.     I  have  seen 

The  half-lights  of  the  exquisite  morning  fade, 

And  daylight  walk  the  land.     And  I  have  taught 

The  baffled  spirit  to  forego  its  dreams, 

Content  within  a  less  imperial  space, 

Amid  the  things  that  are.     For  now  meseems 

That  nothing  in  the  world  is  wholly  fair 

And  nothing  wholly  foul ;  but  all  are  blent 

Of  a  strange  stuff,  whose  mingled  dark  and  bright 

I  saw,  and  still  must  cherish  till  I  die. 

O  youths  who  stand  upon  the  singing  hills, 
Your  bosoms  full  of  singing!     Well  you  know 
The  sacred  light  of  vision,  the  unrest 
Of  pure  desire  for  some  immortal  goal! 
But  you  have  yet  to  learn  the  common  face 


38  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

Of  life  and  days  and  plain  realities 

And  the  slow  reconcilements  of  the  heart. 

But  I  have  learned ;  and  now  I  long  to  go. — 
I  would  return  unto  the  city's  strife, 
And  move  amid  the  vast  and  thrilling  crowds, 
Those  wonderful  crowds  of  living,  breathing  men ; 
And  feel  again  the  wildly  stirring  sense 
That  every  passing  form  might  prove  to  me 
A  comrade  or  a  brother  or  a  foe, 
A  lover  or  a  well  of  fierce  desire! 
With  unsolved  powers  each  one  is  eloquent. 
There  in  the  city  moves  no  single  form 
So  mean  or  lofty  that  it  may  not  be 
A  shuttle  in  the  dizzying  gold-shot  web 
Which,  stretching  out  on  all  sides  round  me  there, 
Inscrutably  is  woven ;  and  creates, 
Out  of  chance  looks  and  errant  turns  and  stops 
And  random  meetings  and  unpurposed  words, 
The  infinite  woof  that  is  my  life  and  me. 
That  life  I  cry  for!     Here  I  die  of  dreams. 
I  perish,  as  a  breath  along  the  wastes." 

And  I,  to  whom  the  tale  had  been  a  scroll 
In  a  strange  language  writ,  which  line  by  line 
Revealed  dim  meaning,  could  not  make  reply. 
But  looking  down  from  those  monastic  walls, — 
That  hoary  refuge  of  a  thousand  years 


AT  ST.  STEPHANOS  39 

Remote  upon  the  precipice  of  the  rocks, — 
Once  more  the  sense  of  ending  Summer  crept 
Out  of  the  night  upon  me:  and  once  more 
I  seemed  as  one  who  looks  from  a  far  place 
Upon  a  scene  wherein  he  has  no  part. 
I  viewed,  as  one  beholds  a  gathered  flower, 
Man's  life,  and  its  strange  pitifulness;  so  sweet 
That  memory  makes  the  heart  to  overflow: 
So  bitter  that  men  turn  from  it,  as  turned 
This  soul  beside  me,  to  the  world  of  dreams: 
So  fleeting,  that  the  darkness  hovers  close 
Even  while  the  seeker  pauses  to  debate 
The  better  path,  or  turns  to  mourn  in  vain 
A  choice  regretted,  and  the  days  go  by 
Bearing  what  still  remains.  .  .  . 

With  calmer  words 
Now  Theodorus  spoke. — 

"  For   I   would   have 
A  little  light,  leaping  from  eye  to  eye, — 
A  little  warmth,  as  hand  grasps  eager  hand 
In  swift  adventure  at  whose  every  turn 
Some  eager  lure  awaits:  —  it  is  not  much, 
But  it  is  everything!     Tenderness,  joy, 
Labor  and  love  and  strife, —  all  fleeting  things, 
But  sweeter  than  the  sharp  sweet  island  wine, 
And  the  one  solace  .      .  and  the  one  solace!  " 


40  AT  ST.  STEPHANOS 

Then  without  pause  for  answer,  he  was  gone 
And  the  night  hid  him.     To  my  troubled  rest 
Shortly  I  went,  nor  sought  his  side  again, 
Having  no  speech  to  answer  the  dim  tale 
Which  he  had  uttered,  though  I  think  he  knew 
It  was  not  coldness  silenced  me. 

At  dawn 

I  rose  and  forth  proceeded  on  my  way 
Over  the  mountains.     As  I  turned  to  look 
Back  for  the  last  time  at  those  gray  walls 
And  weathered  battlements,  my  final  sight 
Was  Theodorus,  in  his  following  eyes 
That  strange  tense  wistfulness  for  joy  and  life, 
As  from  the  gate  he  waved  me  a  farewell. 


LYRICS 


THE  GREY  RWER 

THE  swallows  have  departed. 
The  harvest  moon  has  come. 

0  rare,  O  lyric-hearted, 
Why  are  you  dumb? 

Your  words,  that  once  in  summer 
Glowed  like  a  magic  wine, 
Are  frozen.     Aye!  and  dumber 
Than  yours  are  mine. 

The  mists  upon  the  river 
Drift  like  ghosts  in  a  dream. 

1  think  such  greyness  never 
Has  hung  on  the  stream. 

I  think  such  greyness  never 
Has  brooded  over  me. 
Greyly  flows  the  river 
Down  to  the  sea. 


43 


TO  THE  HARPIES 

YOU  who  with  birch  or  laurel 
Are  swift  to  scourge  or  bless  - 
Silence  your  foolish  quarrel 
Before  her  loveliness. 

What  though  she  went  a-travel 
Down  paths  you  do  not  know? 
Your  words  shall  not  unravel 
Webs  that  allured  her  so. 

Hush  now  your  foolish  babble 
Around  her  golden  head. 
Shut  out  the  prying  rabble. 
Be  happy.     She  is  dead. 

Now  give  one  final  kindness 
That  late  you  dreamed  not  of  — 
Silence,  to  cloak  your  blindness  — 
Peace,  since  you  know  not  love. 


TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

YOU  have  determined  all  that  life  should  be ; 
I  think  it  still  an  infinite  mystery:  — 
Therefore  we  disagree. 

Go,  friend,  and  trouble  not  our  happy  past 
With  memory  of  the  parting  here  at  last 
Amid  confusions  vast. 

Go  —  and  remember  me  as  one  astray, 
If  so  you  will.     Aye,  if  you  choose  it,  pray 
For  my  misguided  way. 

Perhaps, —  who  knows? — from  deeps  I  must  explore 
I  shall  look  back  regretful  to  the  shore 
Where  we  two  walked  before. 

Or  else,  perhaps,  across  a  troubled  sea 
My  reckless  sail  shall  push  inflexibly 
Till  the  west  swallows  me. 

Then  warnings  of  my  doom  your  children  tell. — 
Say  that  your  friend,  whose  life  was  launched  so  well, 
Went  to  eternal  hell. 

Or  will  you  be  more  honest  ?  —  will  you  say 
That  in  the  closing  of  a  stormy  day 
Your  friend  once  sailed  away  — 
45 


46  TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

And  that  mid  foam  that  deafened  all  replies 
He  passed  beyond  trie  vision  of  your  eyes 
To  luminous  western  skies? 


PORTRAIT  OF  AN  OLD  WOMAN 

OHE  limps  with  halting  painful  pace, — 
^   Stops, —  wavers, —  and  creeps  on  again, — 
Peers  up  with  dim  and  questioning  face 
Void  of  desire  or  doubt  or  pain. 

Her  cheeks  hang  gray  in  waxen  folds 
Wherein  there  stirs  no  blood  at  all. 
A  hand  like  bundled  cornstalks  holds 
The  tatters  of  a  faded  shawl. 

Where  was  a  breast,  sunk  bones  she  clasps. 
A  knot  jerks  where  were  woman-hips. 
A  ropy  throat  sends  writhing  gasps 
Up  to  the  tight  line  of  her  lips. 

Here  strong  the  city's  pomp  is  poured.  .  . 
She  stands,  unhuman,  bleak,  aghast, — 
An  empty  temple  of  the  Lord 
From  which  the  jocund  Lord  has  passed. 

He  has  builded  him  another  house, 
Whenceforth  his  flame,  renewed  and  bright, 
Shines  stark  upon  these  weathered  brows 
Abandoned  to  the  final  night. 


47 


LINES  FOR  TWO  FUTURISTS 

WHY  does  all  of  sharp  and  new 
That  our  modern  days  can  brew 
Culminate  in  you? 

This  chaotic  age's  wine 
You  have  drunk  —  and  now  decline 
Any  anodyne. 

On  the  broken  walls  you  stand, 
Peering  toward  some  stony  land 
With  eye-shading  hand. 

Is  it  lonely  as  you  peer? 
Do  you  never  miss,  in  fear, 
Simple  things  and  dear, 

Half  remembered,  left  behind? 
Or  are  backward  glances  blind 
Here  where  the  wind 

Round  the  outposts  sweeps  and  cries  - 
And  each  distant  hearthlight  dies 
To  your  restless  eyes?  .  .  . 

I  too  stand  where  you  have  stood; 
And  the  fever  fills  my  blood 
With  your  cruel  mood. 

48 


LINES  FOR  TWO  FUTURISTS  49 

Yet  some  backward  longings  press 
On  my  heart:  yea,  I  confess 
My  soul's  heaviness. 

Me  a  homesick  tremor  thrills 
As  I  dream  how  sunlight  fills 
My  familiar  hills. 

Me  the  yesterdays  still  hold  — 
Liegeman  still  unto  the  old 
Stories  sweetly  told. 

Into  that  profound  unknown 
Where  the  earthquake  forces  strown 
Shake  each  piled  stone 

Look  I ;  and  exultance  smites 
Me  with  joy;  the  splintered  heights 
Call  me  with  fierce  lights. 

But  a  piety  still  dwells 
In  my  bones;  my  spirit  knells 
Solemnly  farewells 

To  safe  halls  where  I  was  born  — 
To  old  haunts  I  leave  forlorn 
For  this  perilous  morn. 


50  LINES  FOR  TWO  FUTURISTS 

Yet  I  come!  I  cannot  stay! 
Be  it  bitter  night,  or  day 
Glorious, —  your  way 

I  must  tread;  and  on  the  walls, 
Where  this  flame-swept  future  calls 
To  fierce  miracles, 

Lo,  I  greet  you  here!  But  me 
Mock  not  lightly.     I  come  free  — 
But  with  agony. 


IN  LONELY  LANDS 

THUS  straying  — 
Infinitely  delaying  — 

Turning  into  the  wastes  ofttimes  aside  — 
Borne  out  to  empty  sea  on  the  breast  of  many  a  tide 
Seduced  by  winds  of  Maying, — 
O  yet,  beloved  and  beloveds,  bide 
A  little,  and  with  patience  overspread 
My  shelterless  head 

Which,  to  a  righteous  heaven,  such  target  stands 
As  must  invite  the  dread 
Judgment-pronouncing  brands 
On  me,  still  straying.  .  .  . 
O  you  and  ye,  trust  me  a  little  while; 
Love  me  a  little,  touch  me  with  your  hands ; 
Believe  a  little  that  I  still  wander  praying 
In  lonely  lands. 


A  VERY  OLD  SPRING-SONG 

|T   AM  too  old  for  their  wisdom,  that  is  so  young. 
•••     Less  than  nothing  to  me  are  the  paths  they  have  set. 
Shrill  in  my  ears  is  the  song  by  the  Maenads  sung 
When  like  a  storm  down  the  hillsides  their  speed  was 

flung  — 
And  I  am  not  so  foolish  I  can  forget. 

Bosoms  shaken  and  lips  that  are  riots  of  June  — 
Arms  wild,  knees  wild,  hair  wild,  tossed  like  the  spray  — 
Mocking  the  icy  dreams  of  the  tranced  moon  — 
Lifting  flaunting  laughter,  a  wanton  tune 
For  the  wanton  winds  of  the  night  to  ravish  away! 

Give  me  wine !     Give  me  the  rout,  and  hands 
Mad  to  meet  mine,  arms  that  are  starved  for  me. 
Now  when  Spring  comes  dancing  over  the  lands, 
Blue  robe  streaming  slipped  from  its  girdle-bands, — 
Am  I  a  rock,  to  be  blind  when  all  must  see? 

Wine!  Wine!  Wine!  and  the  wine  of  eyes 
Lighting  to  mine,  eager  to  slay  me  or  drown 
All  their  will  in  my  deeps, —  a  passion  that  flies 
Blindingly  past  my  vision, —  a  tumult  that  cries  — 
"  Up  to  the  midnight  hills  where  the  stars  go  down!  " 

I  am  too  old  for  their  wisdom ;  aye,  far  too  old 
For  what  the  greybeards  mutter  beside  the  fire. 

52 


A  VERY  OLD  SPRING-SONG  53 

I  remember  that  lone  in  the  darkness  cold 

Earth  and  silence  will  soon  my  wisdom  enfold.  .  .  . 

Now  will  I  shout  on  the  hilltops  of  my  desire ! 


THE  JEWELS  OF  THE  SUN 

GRAVE  was  your  speech ;  where  the  departing  year 
Down  slopes  to  westward  smouldered,  a  dim  fear 
Drew  slowly  near 

And  held  you, —  fear  not  for  your  hopes  but  mine, 
Through  whom  the  autumn  dullness  poured  sharp  wine, 
A  passionate  anodyne. 

"  To  you  fresh  mysteries  bring  each  day  their  lure," 
At  last  you  said.     "  Would  that  my  heart  were  sure 
They  can  endure! 

"  But  I  mistrust  the  tides  of  your  unrest. 
What  if  at  last,  having  with  rebel  breast 
Stormed  up  the  west, 

"  The  jewels  of  the  setting  sun  you  hold 
In  eager  hands, —  to  find  the  fires  grown  cold, 
And  you  are  old  ?  — 

"  And  bitterness  enshrouds  your  heart  with  grey, 
Homesick  at  last  for  that  fair  tranquil  day 
You  cast  away?  " 

I  was  too  drunk  with  wonder  to  reply, 
There  where  the  sunset  fired  the  shattered  sky 
And  day  went  by. 

54 


THE  JEWELS  OF  THE  SUN  55 

But  here  where  night  enwalls  my  solitude 
There  comes  out  of  the  vaults  wherein  I  brood 
A  speaking  mood  — 

And  I  would  now  have  you  forever  know 
I  see  unduped  the  path  whereon  I  go 
To  heights  or  overthrow. 

Aye,  mine  shall  be  the  jewels  of  the  sun ! 
But  when  the  splendour  of  the  fight  is  done 
And  the  race  run  — 

Think  you  I  know  not  of  the  day  to  be 
When  all  my  world  shall  turn  to  vanity 
And  life  grow  black  to  me? 

Now  flight  is  mine,  from  azure  peak  to  peak. 
Soon,  soon  enough,  the  pinions  shall  grow  weak 
And  the  strength  break. 

Soon  shall  the  noonday  of  my  longing  set; 
Soon  shall  the  wings, — yes,  even  the  heart,  forget. 
And  yet,  and  yet  — 

Begrudge  me  not  my  moment  of  desire  — 
My  fleeting  hope  that  rises  fiercely  higher 
Toward  the  sun's  fire. 


56  THE  JEWELS  OF  THE  SUN 

It  too  shall  pass.     Yet  of  such  flights  as  these 
Is  woven  the  tissue  of  the  destinies 
Of  all  that  man  now  is. 

And  out  of  such  his  future  shall  come  forth  — 
Flights  to  the  sun,  the  west,  the  icy  north  — 
Each  of  so  little  worth. 

Yet  as  I  live,  these  hold  my  utter  trust. 
I  love  the  one  hour  when  from  dying  dust 
Man  rises  in  fierce  lust, 

And  strikes  athwart  the  sky  in  wild  delight, 
Athirst  for  regions  far  beyond  his  sight.  .  .  . 
Then  comes  the  night  — 

And  downward  sinks  the  tired  wing,  and  slow 
Beats  the  mad  heart  that  past  the  sun  would  go  — 
In  fatal  overthrow. 

Mine  too  shall  come!     I,  in  some  haven  blest, 
Shall  also  in  the  end  sink  down  oppressed 
To  the  predestined  rest. 

And  other  wings  shall  beat  across  the  blue, 
And  other  hearts  shall  dream  their  dreams  come  true, 
Kindled  anew. 


THE  JEWELS  OF  THE  SUN  57 

But  not  in  me.     Life,  that  is  lord  of  all, 
Shall  have  passed  by  me, —  passed  beyond  recall 
In  that  late  Fall. 

Doubtless  my  lips  shall  then  unsay  things  said 
When  all  the  glory  of  living  flight  was  shed 
Around  my  head. 

And  I  shall  clasp,  with  weak  and  thankful  heart, 
Whatever  faded  blossom  there  apart 
Can  ease  my  smart. 

Blot  then  my  name!     Divorce  me  from  the  past! 
Mark  me  as  one  whom  life  has  used,  and  cast 
Into  the  dust  at  last! 

And  write  above  my  doorway  — "  This  is  one 
Who  grasped,  an  hour,  the  jewels  of  the  sun  — 
Whose  tale  is  done," 


SNOW  TIME 

IS  it  Summer  that  you  crave  — 
Swallows  dipping  wing — 
Evening  light  across  the  wave  — 
Or  some  remoter  thing? 

Some  report  of  happier  places  — 
Golden  times  and  lands  — 
New  and  wonder-laden  faces  — 
New  and  eager  hands? 

Nay,  you  know  not.  .  .  .  But  I  know 
Round  you  cold  is  furled 
Like  this  shroud  of  trampled  snow 
That  smothers  up  the  world  — 

Where  no  trust  in  any  Spring 
Now  can  heal  or  save, 
Nor  the  icy  sunlight  bring 
Swallows  o'er  the  wave. 


THE  THREE  SISTERS 

GONE  are  those  three,  those  sisters  rare 
With  wonder-lips  and  eyes  ashine. 
One  was  wise  and  one  was  fair, 
And  one  was  mine. 

Ye  mourners,  weave  for  the  sleeping  hair 
Of  only  two  your  ivy  vine. 
For  one  was  wise  and  one  was  fair, 
But  one  was  mine. 


59 


TO  A  CHILD  —  TWENTY  YEARS  HENCE 

YOU  shall  remember  dimly, 
Through  mists  of  far-away, 
Her  whom,  our  lips  set  grimly, 
We  carried  forth  today. 

But  when,  in  days  hereafter, 
Unfolding  time  shall  bring 
Knowledge  of  love  and  laughter 
And  trust  and  triumphing, — 

Then  from  some  face  the  fairest, 
From  some  most  joyous  breast, 
Garner  what  there  is  rarest 
And  happiest  and  best, — 

The  youth,  the  light,  the  rapture 
Of  eager  April  grace, — 
And  in  that  sweetness,  capture 
Your  mother's  far-off  face. 

And  all  the  mists  shall  perish 
That  have  between  you  moved. 
You  shall  see  her  you  cherish; 
And  love,  as  we  have  loved. 


60 


FATHERS  AND  SONS 

CHILD  to  whom  my  loneliness 
Cries  —  and  cries,   I   know,   in  vain, — 
Down  the  years  I  look  and  bless; 
Down  the  years  let  my  hand  press 
Strong  your  shoulder.     I  am  fain 
You  should  reap  from  my  sown  pain 
Flowers  of  joy  and  loveliness, 
Child  I  love,  and  love  in  vain. 

You  will  never  turn  to  me 
As  I  turn  and  cry  to  you. 
Regions  strange  and  visions  new 
Shall  be  yours  to  search  and  see. 
Old  and  alien  I  shall  be. 
I  who  love  you  set  you  free. 
Yet  recall  I  cried  to  you, 
Child  I  love  so  utterly. 


61 


/  AM  WEARY  OF  BEING  BITTER 

I   AM  weary  of  being  bitter  and  weary  of  being  wise, 
And  the  armor  and  the  mask  of  these  fall  from  me, 

after  long. 

I  would  go  where  the  islands  sleep,  or  where  the  sea- 
dawns  rise, 
And  lose  my  bitter  wisdom  in  the  wisdom  of  a  song. 

There  are  magics  hid  in  melodies,  unknown  of  the  sages. 
The  powers  of  purest  wonder  on  fragile  wings  go  by. 
Doubtless  out  of  the  silence  of  dumb  preceding  ages 
Song  woke  the  chaos-world, —  and  light  swept  the  sky. 

All  that  we  know  is  idle ;  idle  is  all  we  cherish ; 
Idle  the  will  that  takes  loads  that  proclaim  it  strong. 
For  the  knowledge,  the  strength,  the  burden,  all  shall  per 
ish. 
One  thing  only  endures,  one  thing  only, —  song. 


62 


ELEVEN  O'CLOCK 

AT  last  after  many  wanderings 
I  believe  in  the  true  gospel. 
I  will  write  no  line  for  any  man 
Nor  for  all  men  together. 
For  myself,  as  from  myself, 
Shall  my  songs  have  being, — 
As  out  of  chaos 
The  stars  and  planets 

Emerged,  authentic  lights  of  their  own  life. 
For  myself  and  from  myself 
Shall  my  words  issue. 
And  if  hereafter 
Any  who  follows 

Find  in  the  wandering  lights  and  scattered  dust 
Aught  eloquent  of  sunrise  or  of  harvest, 
He  shall  be  welcome  to  his  sea-drift, 
His  random  salvage. 

Yet,  it  may  be, 
I  from  my  icy  bondage, 
My  far  seclusion, 

Shall  in  the  end  falter  and  break  my  vigil, 
Drawn  out  to  him  by  love  that  leaps  the  walls 
Of  perfect  peace. 


63 


64  ELEVEN  O'CLOCK 

—  But  this  is  weakness! 
Mine  is  the  living  gospel. 
I  will  write  no  more  for  any  man, 
Aye,  not  for  all  men. 


THE  BIRDCAGE 

O    TRAGIC  bird!  whose  bleeding  feet, 
Whose  maddened  wings  dizzily  beat 
Against  your  cage  in  agony, 
Soon,  soon  to  win  your  liberty! 
Still  you  believe  that  happiness 
Dwells  just  beyond  the  bars  you  press, — 
That  if  a  sudden  miracle 
Gave  your  desire,  life  would  be  well. 
The  old  old  dream!     The  old  old  lure! 
The  devil  plays ;  his  stakes  are  sure. 
With  happiness  he  baits  his  gin 
That  still  mankind  shall  perish  in. 
And  still  we  trust  our  hearts  could  be 
Blessed  by  the  distant  liberty, 
Blind  to  the  newer  agony!  .  .  . 
The  earth  will  be  a  frozen  coal 
Before  man  knows  his  traitor  soul. 


65 


AMONG  SHADOWS 

IN  halls  of  sleep  you  wandered  by, 
This  time  so  indistinguishably 
I  cannot  remember  aught  of  it 
Save  that  I  know  last  night  we  met. 
I  know  it  by  the  cloudy  thrill 
That  in  my  heart  is  quivering  still; 
And  sense  of  loveliness  forgot 
Teases  my  fancy  out  of  thought. 
Though  with  the  night  the  vision  wanes, 
Its  haunting  presence  still  may  last  — 
As  odour  of  flowers  faint  remains 
In  halls  where  Helen's  shade  has  passed. 


66 


LIKE  HIM  WHOSE  SPIRIT 

LIKE  him  whose  spirit  in  the  blaze  of  noon 
Still  keeps  the  memory  of  one  secret  star 
That  in  the  dusk  of  a  remembered  June 
Thrilled  the  strange  hour  with  beauty  from  afar  — 
And  perilous  spells  of  twilight  snare  his  heart, 
And  wistful  moods  his  common  thoughts  subdue, 
And  life  seethes  by  him  utterly  apart  — 
Last  night  I  dreamed,  today  I  dream,  of  you. 
Gleams  downward  strike;  bright  bubbles  upward  hover 
Through  the  charmed  air;  far  sea-winds  cool  my  brow. 
Invisible  lips  tell  me  I  shall  discover 
Today  a  temple,  a  mystery,  a  vow.  .  .  . 
The  cycle  rounds:  only  the  false  seems  true. 
Last  night  I  dreamed,  today  I  dream,  of  you. 


67 


MEETING 

GREY-ROBED     Wanderer      in      sleep  .  .  .  Wan 
derer —  .  .  . 
You,  also,  move  among 
Those  silent  halls 

Dim  on  the  shore  of  the  unsailed  deep? 
And  your  footfalls,  yours  also,  Wanderer, 
Faint  through  those  twilight  corridors  have  rung? 

Of  late  my  eyes  have  seen.  .  .  .  Wanderer.  .  .  . 
—  Amid  the  shadow's  gloom 
Of  that  sleep-girdled  place 

I  should  have  known  such  joy  could  not  have  been  — 
To  see  your  face ;  —  and  yet,  Wanderer, 
What  hopes  seem  vain  beneath  the  night  in  bloom? 

Wearily   I   awake.  .  .  .  Wanderer.  .  .  . 
Your  look  of  old  despair 
Like  a  dying  star 

In  morning  vanishes.     But  for  all  memories'  sake, — 
Though  you  are  far, —  tonight,  O  Wanderer, 
Tonight  come,  though  in  silence,  to  the  shadows  there.  .  .  . 


A  LOVE  LETTER 

NOW  looking  back  across  the  twenty  years, 
Seeing  once  more  your  delicate  bended  head, 
Feeling  once  more  the  sharp  salt  of  your  tears 
Upon  my  lips, —  things  that  I  thought  were  dead 
Rise  and  will  speak, —  speak  of  the  dream  we  knew, 
The  white  hours,  the  incredible  hours,  now  done. 
I  feel  again  the  magic  winds  that  blew 
Across  our  twilights;  and  I  seem  alone 
With  you  once  more,  when  in  the  lamplit  glow 
You  filled  the  dusks  with  terrible  melody, 
Borne  on  whose  flood  my  spirit  seemed  to  grow 
Into  that  greater  which  I  longed  to  be. 
And  then  I  see  the  days  that  followed  after, — 
The  dark  days,  the  blind  days,  when  there  rang 
Through  our  old  haunts  a  shriek  of  ribald  laughter 
To  mock  the  melodies  that  late  you  sang. 
I  see  the  uncertain  gloom,  the  sudden  end, — 
The  end  of  loving, —  and  the  madhouse  days. 
You  said  — "  I  cannot,  dare  not, —  O  my  friend !  "  .  , 
Little  you  knew  the  parting  of  our  ways! 
You  went,  and  utterly  were  vanished  thence. 
I  see  the  shadowy  months  that  after  passed  — 
And  then  the  years  grey  with  indifference 
When  all  I  prayed  was  dying  died  at  last. 
Until  there  came  an  iron  callous  mood, — 
Scorn  of  mankind, —  a  blessed  icy  dumb 
Contempt  for  life,  like  poison  in  my  blood  — 
69 


70  A  LOVE  LETTER 

The  bitter  scoffing  brain  I  have  become. 
Oh  love,  tonight,  led  by  some  trick  of  fate, 
Seeing  the  dream  we  cowards  never  proved, 
There  rises  in  me  an  immortal  hate 
For  you,  the  only  soul  that  I  have  loved. 


THE  OLD  MEN'S  TALE 

(FROM  "  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  THREE  KINGDOMS"  BY 
LO  KUAN  CHUNG) 

GREEN  are  the  hills  as  in  far  times  forgotten. 
But  past  them  flows  a  river  to  the  eastward 
That  journeys  ever,  and  that  changes  ever  — 
A  ceaseless  current. 

The  gifted  and   the  great  have  known  its  windings, 
And  drifted  with  them  past  our  farthest  vision. 
And  good  and  evil  and  defeat  and  conquest 

Down  that  stream  vanish. 

We,  the  old  men,  white-haired  and  full  of  leisure, 
Quietly  tend  our  little  isle  of  waters, 
Spending  our  days  in  the  calm  life  of  fishers 

With  the  flood  round  us. 

We  look  upon  the  silent  moon  of  Autumn ; 
And  feel  the  coolness  of  the  Spring's  light  breezes; 
And  with  a  jar  of  gleeful  wine  between  us 

We  meet  together; 

And  all  the  past,  gone  down  the  eternal  river, 
And  all  the  present,  floating  on  its  bosom, 
Are  to  us  but  a  pleasant  tale  remembered, 

Told  in  the  twilight. 


CHLOROFORM 

(WRITTEN  IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  MARY  ALOIS) 

A  SICKENING  odour,  treacherously  sweet, 
Steals  through  my  sense  heavily. 
Above  me  leans  an  ominous  shape, 
Fearful,  white-robed,  hooded  and  masked  in  white. 
The  pits  of  his  eyes 

Peer  like  the  port-holes  of  an  armored  ship, 
Merciless,  keen,  inhuman,  dark. 
The  hands  alone  are  of  my  kindred; 
Their  slender  strength,  that  soon  shall  press  the  knife 
Silver  and  red,  now  lingers  slowly  above  me, 

The  last  link  with  my  human  world  .  .  . 

i 

.  .  .  The  living  daylight 
Clouds  and  thickens. 

Flashes  of  sudden  clearness  stream  before  me,—  and  then 
A  menacing  wave  of  darkness 
Swallows  the  glow  with  floods  of  vast  and  indeterminate 

grey. 

But  in  the  flashes 
I  see  the  white  form  towering, 
Dim,  ominous, 

Like  some  apostate  monk  whose  will  unholy 
Has  renounced  God ;  and  now 
In  this  most  awful  secret  laboratory 
Would  wring  from  matter 

72 


CHLOROFORM  73 

Its  stark  and  appalling  answer. 

At  the  gates  of  a  bitter  hell  he  stands,  to  wrest  with  eagei 

fierceness 

More  of  that  dark  forbidden  knowledge 
Wherefrom  his  soul  draws  fervor  to  deny. 

The  clouds  have  grown  thicker;  they  sway  around  me 
Dizzying,  terrible,  gigantic,  pressing  in  upon  me 
Like  a  thousand  monsters  of  the  deep  with  formless  arms. 
I  cannot  push  them  back,  I  cannot! 
From  far,  far  off,  a  voice  I  knew  long  ago 
Sounds  faintly  thin  and  clear. 

Suddenly  in  a  desperate  rebellion  I  strive  to  answer, — 
I  strive  to  call  aloud. — 
But  darkness  chokes  and  overcomes  me: 
None  may  hear  my  soundless  cry. 
A  depth  abyssmal  opens 
And  receives,  enfolds,  engulfs  me, — 
Wherein  to  sink  at  last  seems  blissful 
Even  though  to  deeper  pain.  .  .  . 

O  respite  and  peace  of  deliverance! 
The  silence 

Lies  over  me  like  a  benediction. 
As  in  the  earth's  first  pale  creation-morn 
Among  winds  and  waters  holy 
I  am  borne  as  I  longed  to  be  borne. 


74  CHLOROFORM 

I  am  adrift  in  the  depths  of  an  ocean  grey 

Like  seaweed,  desiring  solely 

To  drift  with  the  winds  and  waters;  I  sway 

Into  their  vast  slow  movements;  all  the  shores 

Of  being  are  laved  by  my  tides. 

I  am  drawn  out  toward  spaces  wonderful  and  holy 

Where  peace  abides, 

And  into  golden  aeons  far  away. 

But  over  me 
Where  I  swing  slowly 
Bodiless  in  the  bodiless  sea, 
Very  far, 

Oh  very  far  away, 
Glimmeringly 
Hangs  a  ghostly  star 

Toward  whose  pure  beam  I  must  float  resistlessly. 
Well  do  I  know  its  ray! 
It  is  the  light  beyond  the  worlds  of  space, 
By  groping  sorrowing  man  yet  never  known  — 
The  goal  where  all  men's  blind  and  yearning  desire 
Has  vainly  longed  to  go 
And  has  not  gone :  — 

Where  Eternity  has  its  blue-walled  dwelling-place, 
And  the  crystal  ether  opens  endlessly 
To  all  the  recessed  corners  of  the  world, 
Like  liquid  fire 


CHLOROFORM  75 

Pouring  a  flood  through  the  dimness  revealingly; 

Where  my  soul  shall  behold,  and  in  lightness  of  wonder 

rise  higher 

Out  of  the  shadow  that  long  ago 
Around  me  with  mortality  was  furled. 

I  rise  where  have  winds 
Of  the  night  never  flown ; 
Shaken  with  rapture 
Is  the  vault  of  desire. 
The  weakness  that  binds 
Like  a  shadow  is  gone. 
The  bonds  of  my  capture 
Are  sundered  with  fire! 

This  is  the  hour 
When  the  wonders  open! 
The  lightning-winged  spaces 
Through  which  I  fly 
Accept  me,  a  power 
Whose  prisons  are  broken  — 

.  .  .  But  the  wonder  wavers  — 
The  light  goes  out. 

I  am  in  the  void  no  more ;  changes  are  imminent. 
Time  with  a  million  beating  wings 
Deafens  the  air  in  migratory  flight 


76  CHLOROFORM 

Like  the  roar  of  seas  —  and  is  gone  .  .  . 

And  a  silence 

Lasts  deafeningly. 

In  darkness  and  perfect  silence 

I  wander  groping  in  my  agony, 

Far  from  the  light  lost  in  the  upper  ether  — 

Unknown,  unknowable,  so  nearly  mine. 

And  the  ages  pass  by  me, 

Thousands  each  instant,  yet  I  feel  them  all 

To  the  last  second  of  their  dragging  time. 

Thus  have  I  striven  always 

Since  the  world  began. 

And  when  it  dies  I  still  must  struggle  .  .  . 

The  voice  I  knew  so  long  ago,  like  a  muffled  echo  un 
der  the  sea 
Is  coming  nearer. 
Strong  hands. 
Grip  mine. 
And  words  whose  tones  are  warm  with  some  forgotten 

consolation, 

Some  unintelligible  hope, 
Drag  me  upward  in  horrible  mercy; 
And  the  cold  once-familiar  daylight  glares  into  my  eyes. 

He  stands  there, 
The  white  apostate  monk, 


CHLOROFORM  77 

Speaking  low  lying  words  to  soothe  me. 

And  I  lift  my  voice  out  of  its  vales  of  agony 

And  laugh  in  his  face, 

Mocking  him  with  astonishment  of  wonder. 

For  he  has  denied ; 

And  I  have  come  so  near,  so  near  to  knowing  .  .  . 

Then  as  his  hand  touches  me  gently,  I  am  drawn  up 

from  the  lonely  abysses, 

And  suffer  him  to  lead  me  back  into  the  green  valleys  of 
the  living. 


SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY 


THE  autumn  dusk,  not  yearly  but  eternal, 
Is  haunted  by  thy  voice. 

Who  turns  his  way  far  from  the  valleys  vernal 
And  by  dark  choice 

Disturbs  those  heights  which  from  the  low-lying  land 
Rise  sheerly  toward  the  heavens,  with  thee  may  stand 
And  hear  thy  thunders  down  the  mountains  strown. 
But  none  save  him  who  shares  thy  prophet-sight 
Shall  thence  behold  what  cosmic  dawning-light 
Met  thy  soul's  own. 

II 

Master  of  music!  unmelodious  singing 

Must  build  thy  praises  now. 

Master  of  vision!  vainly  come  we,  bringing 

Words  to  endow 

Thy  silence, —  where,  beyond  our  clouded  powers, 

The  sun-shot  glory  of  resplendent  hours 

Invests  thee  of  the  Dionysiac  flame. 

Yet  undissuaded  come  we,  here  to  make 

Not  thine  enrichment  but  our  own  who  wake 

Thy  echoing  fame. 


SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY  79 

111 

Under  some  turf,  I  know  not  where,  in  slumber 
Lies  all  thy  mortal  part; 

And  wintry  rains  and  fallen  leaves  now  cumber 
That  ruined  heart. 

Soon  shall  thy  frame,  like  any  common  clay, 
Transformed  to  wild-flowers,  rise  to  greet  the  day, 
Than  those  which  from  an  oaf  spring  not  more  fair. 
But  far  from  where  the  wintry  rain-drops  fall, — 
In  many  a  lighted  welcoming  festal  hall, — 
Thy  soul  is  there. 

IV 

Not  o'er  thy  dust  I  brood, —  I  who  have  never 
Looked  in  thy  living  eyes. 
Nor  hoarded  blossom  shall  I  come  to  sever 
Where  thy  grave  lies. 

Let  witlings  dream,  with  shallow  pride  elate, 
That  they  approach  the  presence  of  the  great 
When  at  the  spot  of  birth  or  death  they  stand. 
But  hearts  in  whom  thy  heart  lives,  though  they  be 
By  oceans  sundered,  walk  the  night  with  thee 
In  alien  land. 


8o  SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY 


For  them,  grief  speaks  not  with  the  tidings  spoken 
That  thou  art  of  the  deacL 
No  lamp  extinguished  when  the  bowl  is  broken, 
No  music  fled 

When  the  lute  crumbles,  art  thou  nor  shalt  be; 
But  as  a  great  wave,  lifted  on  the  sea, 
Surges  triumphant  toward  the  sleeping  shore, 
Thou  fallest,  in  splendor  of  irradiant  rain, 
To  sweep  resurgent  all  the  ocean  plain 
Forevermore. 

VI 

The  seas  of  earth  with  flood-tides  filled  thy  bosom; 
The  sea-winds  to  thy  voice 

Lent  power;  the  Grecian  with  the  English  blossom 
Twined,  to  rejoice 

Upon  thy  brow  in  chaplets  of  new  bloom; 
And  over  thee  the  Celtic  mists  of  doom 
Hovered  to  give  their  magic  to  thy  hand ; 
And  past  the  moon,  where  Music  dwells  alone, 
She  woke,  and  loved,  and  left  her  starry  zone 
At  thy  command. 


SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY  81 

VII 

For  thee  spake  Beauty  from  the  shadowy  waters; 
For  thee  Earth  garlanded 

With  loveliness  and  light  her  mortal  daughters; 
Toward  thee  was  sped 
The  arrow  of  swift  longing,  keen  delight, 
Wonder  that  pierces,  cruel  needs  that  smite, 
Madness  and  melody  and  hope  and  tears. 
And  these  with  lights  and  loveliness  illume 
Thy  pages,  where  rich  Summer's  faint  perfume 
Outlasts  the  years. 

VIII 

Outlasts,  too  well!     For  of  the  hearts  that  know  thee 
Few  know  or  dare  to  stand 

On  thy  keen  chilling  heights;  but  where  below  thee 
Thy  lavish  hand 

Has  scattered  brilliant  jewels  of  summer  song 
And  flowers  of  passionate  speech,  there  grope  the  throng 
Crying — "  Behold!  this  bauble,  this  is  he!  " 
And  of  their  love  or  hate,  the  foolish  wars 
Echo  up  faintly  where  amid  lone  stars 
Thy  soul  may  be. 


82  SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY 

IX 

But  some,  who  find  in  thee  a  word  exceeding 

Even  thy  powers  of  speech  — 

To  whom  each  song, —  like  an  oak-leaf  crimson,  bleeding, 

Fallen, —  can  teach 

Tidings  of  that  high  forest  whence  it  came 

Where  the  wooded  mountain-slope  in  one  vast  flame 

Burns  as  the  Autumn  kindles  on  its  quest  — 

These  rapt  diviners  gather  close  to  thee :  — 

Whom  now  the  winter  holds  in  dateless  fee 

Sealed  of  rest. 


Strings  never  touched  before, —  strange  accents  chant 
ing, — 

Strange  quivering  lambent  words, — 
A  far  exalted  hope  serene  or  panting 
Mastering  the  chords, — 

A  sweetness  fierce  and  tragic, —  these  were  thine, 
O  singing  lover  of  dark  Proserpine! 
O  spirit  who  lit  the  Maenad  hills  with  song! 
O  Augur  bearing  aloft  thy  torch  divine, 
Whose  flickering  lights  bewilder  as  they  shine 
Down  on  the  throng! 


SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY  83 

XI 

Not  thy  deep  glooms,  but  thine  exceeding  glory 
Maketh  men  blind  to  thee. 
For  them  thou  hast  no  evening  fireside  story. 
But  to  be  free  — 

But  to  arise,  spurning  all  bonds  that  fold 
The  spirit  of  man  in  fetters  forged  of  old  — 
This  was  the  mighty  trend  of  thy  desire; 
Shattering  the  Gods,  teaching  the  heart  to  mould 
No  longer  idols,  but  aloft  to  hold 
The  soul's  own  fire. 

XII 

Yea,  thou  didst  burst  the  final  gates  of  capture; 
And  thy  strong  heart  has  passed 
From  youth,  half-blinded  by  its  golden  rapture, 
Into  the  vast 

Desolate  bleakness  of  life's  iron  spaces 
And  there  found  solace,  not  in  faiths,  or  faces, 
Or  aught  that  must  endure  Time's  harsh  control. 
In  the  wilderness,  alone,  when  skies  were  cloven, 
Thou  hast  thy  garment  and  thy  refuge  woven 
From  thine  own  soul. 


84  SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY 

XIII 

The  faiths  and  forms  of  yesteryear  are  waning, 
Dropping,  like  leaves. 

Through  the  wood  sweeps  a  great  wind  of  complaining 
As  Time  bereaves 

Pitiful  hearts  of  all  that  they  thought  holy. 
The  icy  stars  look  down  on  melancholy 
Shelterless  creatures  of  a  pillaged  day  — 
A  day  of  disillusionment  and  terror  — 
A  day  that  yields  no  solace  for  the  error 
It  takes  away. 

XIV 

Thee  with  no  solace,  but  with  bolder  passion 
The  bitter  day  endowed. 

As  battling  seas  from  the  frail  swimmer  fashion 
At  last  the  proud 
Indomitable  master  of  their  tides 
Who  with  exultant  power  splendidly  rides 
The  terrible  summit  of  each  whelming  wave, — 
So  didst  thou  reap,  from  fields  of  wreckage,  gain; 
Harvesting  the  wild  fruit  of  the  bitter  main, — 
Strength  that  shall  save. 


SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY  85 

XV 

Here  where  old  barks  upon  new  headlands  shatter 
And  worlds  seem  torn  apart, — 
Amid  the  creeds  now  vain  to  shield  or  flatter 
The  mortal  heart, — 

Where  the  wild  welter  of  strange  knowledge  won 
From  grave  and  engine  and  the  chemic  sun 
Subdues  the  age  to  faith  in  dust  and  gold, — 
The  bardic  laurel  thou  hast  dowered  with  youth, 
In  living  witness  of  the  spirit's  truth 
Like  prophets  old. 

XVI 

Thee  shall  the  future  time  with  joy  inherit. 
Hast  thou  not  sung  and  said  — 
"  Save  its  own  light,  none  leads  the  mortal  spirit, 
None  ever  led"? 

Time  shall  bring  many,  even  as  thy  steps  have  trod, 
Where  the  soul  speaks  authentically  of  God, 
Sustained  by  glories  strange  and  strong  and  new. 
Yet  these  most  Orphic  mysteries  of  thy  heart 
Only  to  kindred  can  thy  speech  impart; 
And  they  are  few. 


86  SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY 

XVII 

Few  men  shall  love  thee,  whom   fierce  powers  have 

lifted 

High  beyond  meed  of  praise. 
But  as  some  bark  whose  seeking  sail  has  drifted 
Through  storm  of  days, 
We  hail  thee,  bearing  back  thy  golden  flowers 
Gathered  beyond  the  Western  Isles,  in  bowers 
That  had  not  seen,  till  thine,  a  vessel's  wake. 
And  looking  on  thee  from  our  land-built  towers 
Know  that  such  sea-dawn  never  can  be  ours 
As  thou  sawest  break. 

XVIII 

Now  sailest  thou  dim-lighted,  lonelier  water. 
By  shores  of  bitter  seas 

Low  is  thy  speech  with  Ceres'  ghostly  daughter, 
Whose  twined  lilies 

Are  not  more  pale  than  thou,  O  bard  most  sweet, 
Most  bitter;  —  for  whose  brow  sedge-crowns  were  mete 
And  crowns  of  splendid  holly  green  and  red; 
Who  passest  from  the  dust  of  careless  feet 
To  where  the  sunrise  thou  hast  sought  shall  greet 
Thy  holy  head. 


SWINBURNE,  AN  ELEGY  87 

XIX 

Thou    hast    followed    after    him    whose    hopes    were 

greatest, — 

That  meteor-soul  divine; 

Near  whom  divine  I  hail  thee !  —    Thou  the  latest 
Of  the  bright  line 

Of  flame-lipped  masters  of  the  spell  of  song, 
Enduring  in  succession  proud  and  long, 
The  banner-bearers  in   triumphant  wars :  — 
Latest, —  and  first  of  that  bright  line  to  be, 
For  whom  thou  also,  flame-lipped,  spirit-free, 
Art  of  the  stars. 


GROTESQUES 


THE  GENTLE  READER 

6i\T  7HY  does  the  poet  choose  to  sing? 
*  ^      No  impulse  ever  stirred  in  me 
The  wish  to  make  myself  a  thing 
To  which  all  mocking  jibes  might  cling!  " 
Perhaps  he  sees  more  than  you  see. 

"  Why  should  this  fool  go  crying  out 
The  secrets  of  his  soul?     In  steel 
I  case  myself,  nor  care  to  shout 
Those  things  one  does  not  talk  about." 
Perhaps  he  feels  more  than  you  feel. 

"  If  I  had  wisdom  to  impart, 
I'd  say  the  thing,  and  let  it  go, — 
Not  trifle  with  a  foolish  art 
And  make  a  motley  of  my  heart !  " 
Perhaps  he  knows  more  than  you  know. 


WHY  WOMEN  HATE  ARTISTS 

THANKS,  beloved ;  here's  your  pay. 
Now  get  you  quickly  out  of  the  way. 
For  there  are  many  more  things  to  do; 
And  all  my  pictures  can't  image  you. 


—  AND  ALSO 

Ladies  who  court  me,  pray  court  me  with  song; 
I  cannot  be  bothered  with  anything  less. 
Do  me  the  honor  of  wearing  full-dress  — 

Trust  me  to  say  when  you've  worn  it  too  long. 


A  POETRY  PARTY 

FRONTING  a  Dear  Child  and  an  Infamy 
You  sat ;   and   watched,   with   dusk-on-the-mountain 

eyes, 

The  marching  river  of  the  beer  go  by, 
Alert  in  vain  for  a  band-crash  of  surprise. 
I  also!     Dawn,  that  in  respectful  way 
Entered  a-liveried,  could  no  lightnings  rouse 
For  which  I  watched ;  the  calling-card  of  day 
Flushed  with  no  guilt  your  Hebridean  brows. 
Wherefore  the  Infamy  and  I  went  down 
Into  a  street  of  windows  high  and  blind. 
His  face,  his  tongue,  his  words,  his  soul,  were  brown. 
But  from  a  window  lofty  and  left  behind, 
Like  a  silver  trumpet  over  the  gutter-dirt, 
You  waved! —      (I   know  not  what;  perhaps  a  shirt.) 


93 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  SPIRITUALLY  DISTURBED 
GENTLEMAN 

O  PIECE  of  garbage  rotting  on  a  rug,— 
To  what  a  final  ending  hast  thou  come! 
Art  thou  predestined  fodder  of  a  bug? 
Shalt  thou  no  more  behold  thy  Dresden  home? 
When  green  disintegration  works  its  last 
Ruin,  and  all  thy  atoms  writhe  and  start, 
Shall  no  frilled-paper  memories  from  the  past 
Drift  spectral  down  the  gravy  of  thy  heart? 
Can  the  cold  grease  from  off  the  dirty  plate 
Make  thee  forget  the  ice-box  of  thy  prime, 
And  soon,  among  the  refuse-cans,  thy  fate 
Blot  out  the  gay  fork-music  of  old  time? 
Ah  well !     All  music  has  its  awkward  flats  — 
And  after  all,  there  are  the  alley-cats! 


94 


PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN  COPPER  POfVYS,  ESQ. 

WHEN  first  the  rebel  hosts  were  hurled 
From  heaven, —  and  as  they  downward  sped 
Flashed  by  them  world  on  glimmering  world 
Like  mileposts  on  that  road  of  dread, — 

One  ruined  angel  by  strange  chance 
On  earth  lit  stranded  with  spent  wing. 
There,  when  revived,  he  took  his  stance 
In  slightly  battered  triumphing. 

And  still  he  stands;  though  lightning-riven, 
More  riotous  than  ere  he  fell, — 
Upon  his  brow  the  lights  of  heaven 
Mixed  with  a  fore-gleam  out  of  hell. 


95 


TO  AN  OUTRAGEOUS  PERSON 

GOD  forgive  you,  O  my  friend ! 
For,  be  sure,  men  never  will. 
Their  most  righteous  wrath  shall  bend 
Toward  you  all  the  strokes  of  ill. 

You  are  outcast. —    Who  could  bear, 
Laboring  dully,  to  behold 
That  glad   carelessness  you  wear, 
Dancing  down  the  sunlight's  gold? 

Who,  a  self-discovered  slave, 
As  the  burdens  on  him  press, 
Could  but  curse  you,  arrant  knave, 
For  your  crime  of  happiness? 

All  the  dogmas  of  our  life 
Are  confuted  by  your  fling  — 
Taking  dullness  not  to  wife, 
But  with  wonder  wantoning. 

All  the  good  and  great  of  earth, 
Prophesying  your  bad  end, 
Sourly  watch  you  dance  in  mirth 
Up  the  rainbow,  O  my  friend! 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  PORTRAIT  PAINTER 

POISED  like  a  nonchalant  design 
Of  Cupid,  hesitant  he  stands, 
With  eyes  that  pucker,  measure,  shine  — 
Brush,  palette  juggled  in  his  hands. 

He  pauses  in  his  pleasant  strut  — 
Weighs  brush  —  aims  —  and  with  panther-pace 
Strides  up  to  sweep  one  purple  cut 
On  the  blank  canvas'  passive  face. 

Backward  and  forward  —  aim,  then  leap  — 
He  showers  long  gashes  on  the  white. 
The  wounds  bleed  jewels;  rainbows  creep 
In  livid  splendor  forth  to  light. 

A  savage  form  begins  to  gleam, 
Writhing  in  curious  vibrant  strife. 
Like  forces  of  a  madness-dream 
Rises  a  shape  of  monstrous  life 

Wherein  with  mordant  calm  he  limns  — 
At  last  stripped  bare  of  mild  pretence 
And  casual  dominance  of  his  whims  — 
His  own  immortal  insolence. 


97 


TO  ARIOSTO,  A  NOTABLE  CRICKET 

COME  drink  a  merry  toast,  O! 
To  little  Ariosto. 

All  Peacocks  that  in  pride  may  strut 
The  Alley  are  alluring  —  but 
A  certain  sweetness  debonair 
Has  dwelling  only  where  our  Ar- 
losto  sings  his  little  tunes 
Of  mad  and  merry  mystic  runes, — 
Of  wine  and  wizardry  and  Spring, 
And  many  another  damned  thing. 
Doubtless  the  April  winds  that  stir 
Each  grossly  human  Him  or  Her, 
To  Ariosto's  tiny  breast 
Bear  also  tidings  of  unrest. 
But  what  a  curious  kind  of  art 
Must  ease  the  burden  of  his  heart ! 
Like  Mordkin,  Ruth  St.  Denis,  and 
The  whole  Terpsichorean  band 
Whose  skill  such  joyful  solace  brings  — 
It's  with  his  hind  legs  that  he  sings! 

How  short  is  life!     He  soon  must  hence 
Vanish.     But  give  him  recompense. — 
O  hostess  kind,  pray  seek  no  more 
To  sweep  the  last  crumb  from  the  floor. 
And  prithee  spill,  my  gentle  host, —  O 
One  Bacchic  drop  —  for  Ariosto. 
98 


THE  POLICE  GAZETTE 

WHERE  drab  along  the  thundering  city  streets 
Straggles  the  crowd  in  somber  dress  and  mean, 
In  a  shop  window  often  have  I  seen 
A  tiptoe  form  whose  lure  each  passer  greets  — 
Some    silk-limbed     girl    whose    smile     our     frowning 

meets  — 

Some  little  half-clad  comic-opera  queen 
As  whitely  shimmering  as  the  Cytherene, 
A  playful  goddess  of  the  printed  sheets. 

Strange  light  —  that  from  this  tinseled  form  pours  gold 
To  follow  me  six  footsteps  on  my  way! 
Strange  ugly  passers  —  whom  this  hussy  bold 
Lures  with  dull  lust  or  chills  with  dull  dismay! 
Strange  world  —  that  has  denied  the  gods  of  old 
Who  thus  steal  back  amongst  us  in  our  day! 


99 


IN  A   BAR  ROOM 

A   CROSS  the  polished  board,  wet  and  ashine, 
•*  •*•  Appalling  incantations  late  have  passed. 
For  some,  the  mercy  of  dull  anodyne; 
For  others,  hope  destined  an  hour  to  last. 
Here  has  been  sold  courage  to  lift  the  weak 
That  they  embrace  a  great  and  noble  doom. 
Here  some  have  bought  a  clue  they  did  not  seek 
Into  the  wastes  of  an  engulfing  gloom. 
And  amorous  tears,  and  high  indignant  hate, 
Laughter,  desires,  passions,  and  hopes,  and  rest, — 
The  drunkard's  sleep,  the  poet's  shout  to  fate, — 
All  from  these  bottles  filled  a  human  breast! 
Magician  of  the  apron !     Let  us  see  — 
What  is  that  draught  you  are  shaking  now  for  me? 


100 


THE  NEWEST  BELIEVER 

THROUGH    his    sick    brain    the    shrieking    bullet 
stormed, 

Wrecking  the  chambers  of  his  spirit's  state. 
The  gleam  that  brightened  and  the  glow  that  warmed 
Those  arrassed  halls  sank  quenched  and  desolate. 
Out  of  the  balefully  enfolding  mesh, 
Life  he  would  free  from  dominance  of  evil ; 
And  purpose  deeper  than  the  weak-willed  flesh 
Bade  him  renounce  the  world,  the  flesh,  the  devil. 
And  as  I  looked  upon  his  shattered  face 
Hideously  fronting  me  in  that  dark  room, 
I  saw  the  Prophets  of  the  Church  take  place 
Beside  him  —  they  who  dared  the  nether  gloom 
For  worlds  of  life  or  silence  far  away, — 
So  hated  they  the  evil  of  their  day. 


101 


THE  WICKED  TO  THE  WISE 

"   A      BRILLIANT  mind,  gone  wrong!  "... 

*~**      O  tell  me,  ye  who  throng 

The  beehives  of  the  world,  grow  ye  not  ever  weary  of 
this  song? 


"  The  way  our  fathers  went "... 
Yes,  if  our  days  were  spent 

Sod-deep,  beside  our  fathers'  bones,  wise,  needless  were 
your  argument. 

"  The  wisdom  of  the  mass  "... 
Thank  God,  it  too  shall  pass 

Like  the  breathed  film  hiding  the  face  grayly  within  the 
silvered  glass. 

"  All's  surely  for  the  best!"  .  .  . 
Aye,  so  shall  be  confessed 

By  your  sons'  sons,  marking  where  down  we  smote  you 
as  we  onward  pressed! 


102 


SONG  OF  A  VERY  SMALL  DEVIL 

HE  who  looks  in  golden  state 
Down  from  ramparts  of  high  heaven, 
Knows  he  any  turn  of  fate 
It  must  be  of  evil  given  — 
He  perhaps  shall   wander   late 
Downward  through  the  luminous  gate. 

He  who  makes  himself  a  gay 
Dear  familiar  of  things  evil  — 
In  some  deepest  tarn  astray  — 
Close-companioned   of   the    Devil, — 
He  can  nowhere  turn  his  way 
Save  up  brighter  slopes  of  day.  . 

Plight  it  is,  yet  clear  to  see. 
Hence  take  solace  of  your  sinning. — 
As  ye  sink  unfathomably, 
Heaven  grows  ever  easier  winning. 
Therefore  ye  who  saved  would  be, 
Come  and  shake  a  leg  with  me! 


103 


THISTLES 

THEY    blow   by    the   wayside,    they    march    in    the 
wood. — 
"  Tell  me,   for  what  are  these  vile  weeds  good  ?  "  .  .  . 

Not  as  a  crop  for  your  meadow-land. 
Not  to  seize  and  crush  in  your  hand. 

Not  to  eat,  and  not  to  smell; 
Nor  daisy-like  can  they  fortunes  tell. 

Asses  may  eat,  and  take  no  harm  — 
Monkeys  may  hug  them  with  unscathed  arm  — 

But  you  —  beware !  how  you  touch  this  thing, 
This  amethyst-emerald  bloom  with  a  sting. 

And  yet  —  strange !  —  once  did  I  know  a  man 
Who  watched  all  day  where  the  thistles  ran 

In  glorious  straggling  multitude 
Out  of  the  border  of  a  wood. 

He  watched,  enthralled,  the  whole  day  through. 
Only  when  night  hid  from  his  view 

Their  purple  riot  of  useless  wars, 
He  turned,  half-loath,  to  the  kindred  stars, 


104 


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